Moms and Depression

So, the thing is… the problem with depression is that it’s just so DEPRESSING!

I’ve written about six drafts of this column. I’ve been struggling to write about Mom Depression and how I went through a bout with it earlier this year, which is one reason I haven’t sent many columns. The truth is, the more I write about it, the more I feel the need to go lie down with a cold compress on my head. There’s just no way to describe what depression looks like to me without completely alarming my readers, not to mention my family –many of whom question my stability anyway. But suffice to say that it was pretty bad. It wasn’t a MAJOR depression (as in suicidal thoughts and the need to move to an unheated cabin in Montana) but it was a major version of a Minor Depression. (For more on depression, see this article: http://coolnurse.healthology.com/focus_article.asp?f=mentalhealth&c=depression_overview

I’m not sure why this is so hard to write about. It’s not that I fear my readers’ judgment, although sometimes the line between “honest” and “completely vulnerable” is a fine one when writing for an audience. And, you know, it’s not funny to stand up in front of people, under fluorescent lighting and take your clothes off. (Well, in my case that COULD be funny... sigh.)

It’s just that sometimes I get overwhelmed by grief for this world. Does it seem like the news is filled with stories of our inhumanity to each other? The sheer cruelty of people to other beings who are weaker … well, if we internalize it, we’d never get out of bed Once you become a mother and you realize that your children inherit this world and that there are really bad people out there who will hurt them… I don’t know. I started to let myself grieve for all of this and then I couldn’t get to a point where I could see anything BUT that sadness.

I finally went to my doctor in trepidation and he was kind and compassionate. He explained the different treatment options and wrote a prescription for anti-depressants, which I’ve been taking for a few months now. I feel much better. Much more like my old self—which is scary for some people, I guess, but it adds a certain amount of high camp to our every day routine.

And one of the best things that came from all of this was that I questioned everything (You know: why am I here, is this enough of a life, shouldn’t I be changing the world, is it possible to live without chocolate?) and then I got an answer and I was able to actually recognize it when it came!

The first thing that happened was that I opened the latest Elizabeth Berg book, "The Art of Mending." I've read it before and I just opened it randomly and turned to this passage:

"There are random moments --tossing a salad, coming up the driveway to the house, ironing the seams flat on a quilt square, standing at the kitchen window and looking out at the delphiniums, hearing a burst of laughter from one of my children's rooms --when I feel a wavelike rush of joy. This is my true religion: arbitrary moments of nearly painful happiness for a life I feel privileged to lead. Think of the way you sometimes see a tiny shaft of sunlight burst through a gap between rocks, the way it then expands to illuminate a much larger space --it's like that. And it's like quilting, a thread surfacing and then disappearing into the fabric of ordinary days. It's not always visible, but it's what holds everything together."

Then there were all these other things that happened in the space of about two days: My friend Linda, who lives in Indianapolis, called me to tell me she literally RAN INTO Elizabeth Berg at a bookstore. Berg is my favorite contemporary writer and the same writer who wrote the passage above! And at the end of the school year, in Ana's Kindergarten class, the little selective mute --the girl who has never spoken to anyone outside of her family for the whole six years of her life-- suddenly started talking. And talking. And talking. She talked to me, to the class, to other friends...she just finally GAVE HERSELF PERMISSION TO TALK TO PEOPLE OUTSIDE HER FAMILY.

And then out of the blue, a reader, Holly, sent me this:

"Today I looked in the rearview mirror of my car, and

I felt powerful and prayerful

I felt content and happy and peaceful

I felt humbled and inadequate and in need of strength

Yet I felt strong and capable

I felt responsible and mature

I felt young and joyful and ready to laugh

I felt thankful and grateful and close to tears …

As I watched my two babies sleep soundly in their car seats, I felt the hand of God on my heart and mind, give me all I need to raise them up in the way they should go."

Well, there it is, see. Proof that we are all more similar than different. Proof that living this life is terrifying and exalting. Proof that God is in the details, which we only can see when we really look hard. Proof that if we have a choice between crying or laughing, laughing is better.

And just maybe, proof that the more we talk and love and support each other, the less depressed and the more uplifted we are.

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Barbara Cooper is the mother of Ana (6) and Jane (3.75). She lives in Austin, Texas and she usually doesn't need anyone's permission to talk and talk and talk.