Welcome to Part I of Segullah’s UP CLOSE series about depression. If you haven’t already read the series overview, please do so before proceeding.

In this post, our group members introduce themselves by describing how they came to recognize depression as a problem in their life. Depression is an untidy concept, and our semantics reflect that. We use the term to describe a vast spectrum of emotional and mental states, from mild and temporary situational distress to severe and abiding pathology, and even with the help of diagnostic parameters it can be tricky to distinguish between the “normal” depression of human experience and the mood disorder called clinical depression.

“There are many grey states between full-blown depression and a mild ache unaccompanied by changes of sleep, appetite, energy, or interest,” writes Andrew Solomon. “In an era in which we are increasingly alienated from our feelings, we might be comforted by the idea that a doctor could take a blood test or a brain scan and tell us whether we had depression and what kind we had. But depression is an emotion that exists in all people, fluctuating in and out of control; depression the illness is an excess of something common, not the introduction of something exotic.”

The definition of “excess” can vary from individual to individual, and presenting symptoms for depression differ from case to case. This variation shows in our group’s responses to the question, When did you realize depression was an issue for you?

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Anna: When I was about six my parents bought me a set of Childcraft encyclopedias, and the volume I spent the most time reading was the parent guide. I also spent many hours reading the family medical guide and anything else I could find related to physical or mental diagnostics. The field just always interested me, even as a small child.

Because of that background, when I experienced my first major depressive episode at 13 I knew what was going on. I didn’t feel safe talking to my parents, though, so it was a lonely experience. Eventually I pulled through it with the support of an observant mentor. My second episode came a few years later, and still not feeling I could turn to my parents for support, I plotted ways my science-minded boyfriend could medicate me with lithium (that never panned out–which is probably a good thing!)

Over the years I have experienced other bouts of depression. I have learned that my body has a tendency to flip into depression when I get overwhelmed by too many stressors at once. So far I have been able to pull back out each time, either with patience and good self care or with medication, but given my history I know the odds are that it will happen again.

Abigail: Funny thing is, I didn’t realize that depression–that is, clinical depression–was an issue for me until I was well into my second major bout of depression. And I think that’s one of the insidious things about depression: once you’re entrenched in it, it’s hard to recognize that you have a medically diagnosable problem because your thinking is so skewed. I had a major episode of depression in college, but I just thought of myself as being sad, and somehow incompetent (why was I unable to cope when everyone else seemed to be coping?) and I blamed myself for being unable to pull myself together. I think I vaguely thought that maybe I needed counseling, but I was too paralyzed by then to seek counseling–and I also felt ashamed at the thought of having to get counseling (at that time, I thought that only “crazy” people got counseling, and I didn’t want to be one of those people). Luckily, I eventually pulled out of my depression after about six months or so.

Years later, when my fourth child was about a year old, my husband and I went through a very difficult period in our marriage. We were under extreme financial stress; I had two church callings and was heavily involved with a community project. I became depressed, but I didn’t realize that’s what was wrong with me. I knew I was stressed; I knew I was unhappy and feeling more and more unable to cope; I was short-tempered and weepy all the time and feeling hopeless and despondent. I fought with my husband and was impatient and sharp with my children. But again, I blamed myself for being weak, for not being able to pull myself together, for being a terrible wife and mother; I thought my irritability and pessimism were character flaws rather than symptoms of a medical disorder. I could not get outside of my head enough to recognize that I was ill.

After several months of this, while I was feeling more and more desperate and actually wishing I could cease to exist, I came across an article in Ladies Home Journal on mothers and depression. And it was as if a light bulb went on. The article talked about how difficult it is to recognize depression when one is in its throes. And as I read the list of depression symptoms in the article I recognized myself in every symptom. I started to wonder if, in fact, I might be clinically depressed. Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to me before then. As I was still turning this over in my mind, several days later I was driving somewhere with my two youngest children, and out of the blue my four-year-old said: “Mommy, what could I do that would make you happy?” I remembered how the article had said that children pick up on their mothers’ depression and want to help their mothers feel happy again, and again, a light bulb went on. It took me another couple of weeks before I finally admitted to myself and my husband that I was depressed, and another couple of weeks after that before I got up enough courage to make an appointment with a counselor. But that magazine article was the catalyst, and I came to see that it was an answer to my desperate prayers.

It wasn’t until I was in counseling that I could recognize that I’d actually been clinically depressed in college, as well. And as I examined my childhood I realized that my parents had also struggled with depression. No one had ever labeled it as depression before, but that’s what it was. My siblings have also struggled with bouts of depression, and I now am able to say that in my family, we have a genetic tendency towards depression. But it’s taken me years to get here.

Lydia: I have seasonal depression.  Except it lasts for about 9 months of the year.  I don’t remember having it when we were first married and living in Boston.  Then, I remember hating that dusk arrived at about 3:30 p.m., but I hated it in a “this is just wrong” sort of way, not with the crushing fatigue I experienced after we moved from Berkeley to Utah.

It hit me the very first winter here.  Berkeley doesn’t really have winter, maybe a rainy month or so, but you can enjoy the outdoors almost the entire year.  Lots of sunlight.  A very close student housing community, like family to each other.  Leaving that life was almost like they had all died at once.  We scattered across the country, coast to coast, likely to never completely reunite again.

There was such a sudden and obvious difference in how I felt that I knew right away what I was dealing with.  What was unexpected for me was that it didn’t feel like sadness exactly.  I didn’t have negative thoughts about my self-worth.  I didn’t even consciously pine away for my friends, not daily anyway.  Daily I just felt exhausted, like every thing was way too hard, not just big things that really are hard, but small daily tasks, showering even–it all felt impossibly heavy.

Of course, that meant that nothing was fun.  Things that normally brought me great joy seemed just blah, or, again, too hard to really do.  It felt like I just dragged myself through each day.  And then I’d be constantly berating myself for what I didn’t get done. (I guess that does count as negative thoughts about myself.)

Since my husband and I have both watched depression in our birth families, we were pretty aware of all the different ways it can manifest itself–moroseness, anger, rage, no sense of humor, Eeyore-like martyrdom, criticizing others, quick to take offense, inability to act decisively, as well as sadness and lack of self-worth.  Understanding that depression has many different faces gave me a big leg-up in recognizing it in myself.

My obsessive research nature also helped me out.  After much internet-trolling (these days you’d find the info within a few seconds, but 7-8 years ago people were just starting to talk about SAD), by our second Utah winter I knew I needed light therapy.  That brought me up out of the heavy depths but has never gotten me quite to where I fully enjoy life the way I’d like to.  Except during the three summer months.

Euodias: When I was 16, I quit sleeping. In our basement we had a laundry room that had a door that went back deeper into a large pantry with a glazed concrete floor and rows of wood shelves and one light bulb. Beyond the second room, even further back lay another room which was used like an attic. It held old furniture and boxes we weren’t using. I would go into the deepest part and sit on the cement floor, the light coming in from the aluminum window well. I spent my days there, sometimes sleeping, sometimes sitting, and returned to my room at night. I knew I was depressed then.

Years later when my first baby was born, I was worried I would become depressed, but I didn’t. It wasn’t until my fourth child was born that I became aware of my depression again, but didn’t realize I was depressed until I began to come out of it. Looking back I realize I had some depression with my second and third child too.

Elisabeth: Growing up in the church, I think I often conflated emotion and the Spirit.  I don’t think I am too far off if I say that we are taught that when we feel really good it is the Spirit witnessing truth; when we feel an absence of joy it can be a signal that the Spirit has withdrawn. I didn’t realize that an absence of joy could mean anything else until I was serving a mission and began to have bouts where I was convinced that I must be doing something horribly wrong because I was not feeling the Spirit. Things spiraled out of control and I would wake up in the morning and sob because I couldn’t pray and then we would go out and work and I would fall apart and berate myself for not knowing the most effective things to be doing. I think my real wake up call was the morning I screamed at my companion at the top of my lungs”I am not normal! This is not normal!” It was my mission president who had the insight to see this as a mental illness problem and not a spiritual problem. He had me speak with a psychologist on the phone and eventually they began to convince me that I was experiencing panic attacks that had nothing to do with my worthiness. That was the beginning.

It was not until after the birth of my second child that I finally admitted that the problem was not an occasional panic attack but depression. I agree that it can be extremely difficult to self-diagnose when you are in the throes of depression. Without the support of my husband I would have simply believed that this was what life was like, had always been like, and would always be like. Medication has helped me a great deal, but I am still dealing with the patterns and habits I developed before. While the chemical balance seems to be restored some days, I am very adept at creating depression in myself by reverting to old thought patterns. And even after I realized I had depression, got treatment, and was feeling better, I was not able to recognize a slip back into depression until it was pointed out to me.

Abigail: You are so right. Even though I know now how to recognize depression, when I’m in it, it’s difficult for me to diagnose myself and I seem to be too paralyzed to take action.

Deborah: It can be so hard to imagine being so incapacitated that you can’t fathom completing the task of making a phone call. But that’s what depression can do. The prospect of looking up a phone number, pushing the buttons, talking to someone, having to answer questions–it can seem utterly impossible just from a logistical standpoint. And that’s not even counting the emotional roadblocks, the denial and shame and guilt that so often comes with depression–you can’t bear the thought that you’re clinically depressed, you blame yourself, you feel weak and stupid for being in the state you’re in, if you can even see it for what it is.

Abigail: So true! I remember, when I was in the worst of my depression, actually having to will myself to get out the phone book, look up phone numbers, make an appointment–it took weeks for me to get up the courage and muster the willpower to actually take that step. And I actually got out the phone book several times, then put it back, then took it out. Such a simple thing, but at the time it seemed like an impossible task. And I felt so ashamed. I was afraid that if I sought counseling and revealed my thoughts to someone I would only have my deepest fears confirmed: that I was, indeed, a terrible person. The guilt and shame can be overwhelming and incapacitating. It was such a relief–and a surprise–the first time I met with a counselor and he told me, “No wonder you feel the way you do.” I came away from that session weeping with relief, feeling validated, understood, and, for the first time in months, hopeful.

One more depression symptom I meant to mention: withdrawal. I notice that I stop wanting to talk to people or go places when I’m depressed, and I withdraw from my husband, as well. It feels very lonely and isolating.

In fact, if I were being completely honest I would have to say that I’ve actually been feeling depressed again the last several months (and I’m taking an antidepressant, so I must need to up my dosage) but I haven’t wanted to acknowledge it as such (so this is a timely discussion!). This time, though, instead of having the mood swings, I’ve been feeling apathetic and numb most of the time. I’m functioning okay and I’m not losing my temper, but I can’t seem to enjoy things. I don’t look forward to anything–it feels like I’m just trudging from one chore to the next. And I don’t have my usual sense of humor. It’s not completely black, like it has been during severe depression (thanks to the antidepressant, I’m assuming), but it feels gray and blah.

Elisabeth: Exhaustion is a big part of it for me, too. I start sleeping a lot and find excuses to keep sleeping.

Anna: The thinking distortions that come with depression are so hard. And they take on different forms. I usually can figure out that I’m depressed (it is obvious to me that I shouldn’t be crying all day long and sleeping for 12 hours at a time, which is what I do when I’m depressed) but I do have trouble connecting the dots in the rest of my life. Like it won’t be obvious to me that feeling frustrated and overwhelmed as a mother has to do with the depression. My husband will have to remind me, “Anna, you’re depressed. You’re not going to see things the same way once we get you stabillized.” And I have to hold onto that, because from where I am I don’t have the perspective. It’s like I get amnesia and forget that I used to handle lots of things more gracefully. I think it’s also helpful to remember that there are different flavors of depression. Some people may have such intense feelings that they can’t get out of bed for weeks at a time. For other people it isn’t going to look like that. They might experience a chronic low mood that is also very dehabilitating in a different way. Some people have seasonal depression, some have depression that cycles with manic episodes. If you think depression only looks like someone else it is that much harder to grasp when it might be influencing you.

Elisabeth: Euodias, Did knowing you were depressed help you? Were you less prone to do something drastic because you were aware of it?

Euodias: Yes. Even though there have been fleeting thoughts of suicide, I never really wanted to die. Knowing I was depressed helped–hoping I could get it fixed at a teenager, but not knowing how. As an adult, I hoped I could work through it. I had been in that place before, had better tools, and knew it was something treatable.

It was much easier for me to recognize depression as a teen than as a mother. As a teen I could quit life. I just quit going to school, refused to socialize, eat, or be with my family. That basement has become symbolic for me. I felt like I was in a deep hole in the ground, with mud all around me, and whenever I tried to climb out, it was like clawing at roots and clumps of dirt falling on me. The hole would become deeper and deeper. It seemed bottomless.  That is how I tried to describe it to my parents.

I became so delusional I thought I heard voices telling me to kill myself. I told my parents. To say they were ill equipped to handle it is an understatement; they took me to a friend to be exorcised. It all seems surreal now.

After a long series of events, things changed. The following year when my sister was suicidal, they immediately chose more conventional means and put her in the hospital. Medication had become a family friend.

As a mother you can’t quit life. You have to function somehow. I knew I was struggling with my last child when he was 6 weeks old I completely fell to pieces, sobbing uncontrollably because he didn’t like the new stroller I bought. He simply fussed when I put him in it, and I thought it was the end of the world. Only recently have I realized as I come out of it, how bad it really was for about 2 years.

Abigail: Here’s a scene that comes to mind (and I’m not proud of it): During the worst of my depression, before I realized I was depressed, our washing machine had broken, and we were using our neighbors’ washing machine next door. My husband went next door to put a load of wash in and I asked him to make sure the dial for water temperature was turned to “cold,” because I didn’t want my new pair of pants to shrink. I emphasized the point several times (while he rolled his eyes). But when I went over later to take the clothes out of the washing machine, I noticed that the dial had been turned to “hot”–not even “warm,” but “hot.” I couldn’t even see straight, I was so mad. I stormed home, full of rage, weeping, and just lit into my husband in the kitchen. I remember him standing against the fridge, looking cornered, while I raged at him, accusing him of doing it on purpose and wailing uncontrollably. And he actually flipped me off. I think that was the low point.

Other images: Weeping night after night after I went to bed, crying myself into exhaustion. Standing in the shower and crying for 20 minutes at a time. Going around with swollen eyes most days. Standing in the kitchen, trying to figure out what to fix for dinner and feeling paralyzed. And yes, the insomnia. I also lost 10 pounds (and I was thin to begin with), had no appetite.

One more image (again, not proud): I had been working myself to death on a community project. I had gone downtown to drop off some papers, and I had my four-year-old and eighteen-month-old with me. After we went back out to the car, I was trying to strap my toddler into her car seat and she started throwing a tantrum. I was so frustrated that I slapped her on her leg several times and forced her into her seat. I got into the car, shaking and crying myself, and drove off with my toddler wailing in her car seat. I knew, at that moment, that I was the world’s worst mother, and I remember feeling completely hopeless, that my life was all blackness and despair. Painful to remember.

Lydia: I totally relate to what Anna said about how depression responds to everything in life, especially feeling overwhelmed as a mother.  Mothering is always a bit overwhelming, but under the cloud of depression it feels pretty much impossible.  Even getting up to take a shower seems too hard.  Plus I’m really easily offended to little things my husband will say, etc.

I’ve been thinking about concrete images that capture the experience of depression for me.  Though I can’t remember any particular moments, I do have images, mainly a big, dark cloud.  I’m inside it.  I can barely see or hear anything going on outside it.  People seem to be very far away, even my family.

The other image is me in bed, held to the bed (or the couch) by my own weight.  I’m too heavy for me to lift.

I don’t think I ever stayed in bed all day (unless I was sick), but like Anna, in depression mode I sleep way long and feel under-rested unless I get at least 9 hours.  And that heavy feeling stays with me all day, like I’m dragging something around.  And, because of the seasonal (circadian rhythm) aspect, the sleep has to happen at very consistent times.  Fewer hours is better than the wrong hours, as far as how I’ll feel the next day.  When you’re really tired it’s hard to convince yourself you’ll actually feel better if you always get up at your regular time, even if you got to bed late.

Deborah: Lydia, thanks for describing that darkness and heaviness. So familiar. I’m remembering times of depression where I can’t bring myself to bend down and pick up a sock on the floor. I’m overwhelmed by the presence of the sock lying there, needing to be dealt with. It requires extreme effort to move my arm, and to use my brain to figure out what to do with the sock. Another example: I can’t go grocery shopping when I’m depressed. The rows and rows of things to look at and evaluate, the hundreds of little decisions, the effort of pushing the cart, the loneliness of a nearly-empty store with the music playing through the ceiling speakers or the awfulness of having to maneuver around people during peak hours–all of it is overwhelming.

I’m glad Anna pointed out the huge spectrum of symptoms wherein depression can manifest itself. Even within the same individual, there can be very different experiences depending on circumstance and the degree of depression. When I’m mildly depressed I feel a constant weight of guilt, inadequacy, fear, and sadness, but it’s not always in the forefront of my consciousness. I can distract myself from it. Measures like exercise and conversation with friends can take the edge off and help me feel capable of fulfilling my responsibilities. This has been my normal for as long as I can remember, but I didn’t realize it qualified as depression for a long, long time. I just thought it was my personality.

When I’m moderately depressed I can tell something is wrong because I cry, and cry, and cry. The despair feels bottomless. It’s frightening because it’s not attached to anything–if I try to pin it down to some specific fear or point of sorrow, it immediately shifts out of reach. Basically, I can feel extreme sadness over just about anything. My mind twists every thought into sorrow. I remember one afternoon crying inconsolably to a friend on the phone because my kids hated whole wheat bread and I felt like a terrible mother for letting them eat white bread. I didn’t have the wherewithal to fight them on it, but I felt like a complete failure for doing the “wrong” thing. It sounds ridiculous to me now, but at the time the guilt couldn’t have been more real or compelling.

When I’m severely depressed I grow numb. I feel paralyzed and almost catatonic, disconnected from reality, like being encased in an almost-rigid material–I can move, mentally and physically, but just barely. I struggle to speak even in short phrases. I don’t have the energy for bouts of weeping. I don’t feel anything, really, except for a desire to cease existing.

Abigail: That big, dark cloud image is so appropriate, Lydia. That darkness feels almost physical. I’ve noticed that when I’ve been depressed during the summer that even sunny, blue-skied days feel dark and obscured, like a cloud is over the sun. I can relate to Deborah’s feeling of being tongue-tied as well. I do remember feeling like I could not open my mouth or frame the words, my mind being completely blank, yet still racing. It goes along with being withdrawn, feeling disconnected from everyone. For me it’s like being encased in cotton wool. And that numbness and inability to feel anything, not even having the energy to cry–yes. Paralysis. Heaviness. Blankness.

For me, the numbness and apathy and blankness have felt more typical during moderate depression. For me, severe depression is the continual crying, the fits of anger and inexplicable rage over little things, feeling like I can’t cope with even the smallest things, feeling like I’m completely worthless and life is hopeless–blackness, tears, despair. That’s when I want to cease to exist.

And Deborah, I dislike grocery shopping on the best of days, but when I’m depressed, yes, it’s absolutely unthinkable. Having to fix meals is another task that unhinges me.

Deborah: Why is making dinner such torture? I can’t explain it, but it is. Maybe because it involves so many steps, so many choices, so much cognitive skill (which I didn’t realize until I couldn’t do it). Maybe because it’s an act of nurturing others and when you’re depressed you have no wellspring of caring or motivation to nurture others. Plus it comes at the worst time of day (or, at least, one of the worst–mornings and bedtimes are awful, too)–I feel somewhat depressed in the late afternoon just about every day, even on good days.

Abigail: I once heard someone describe that late-afternoon/dinner preparation time as “the suicide hour” (except it should be “hours”). That’s how it felt to me when my children were younger and I was depressed. That late afternoon time, when everyone needed help with homework and needed to be driven to their activities and I was trying to make dinner while holding a baby on my hip and my husband was late, yet again, and I had absolutely nothing to give–yes, “suicide hour” describes it well. It’s not nearly as bad, now, but late afternoons are still my least favorite part of the day.

Lydia: That analysis of why cooking is torture rings very true.  I had never thought about why–so many choices, so much thinking, and nurturing when you have nothing to give. On top of that, like you and Abigail said, it’s definitely my worst time of day–I’m already worn out and the biggest jobs of the day (dinner, homework, bedtime) are yet to be done.

Eve: I appreciate the thoughts shared about difficulty making decisions.  I remember my counselor telling me that making decisions was the major symptom of depression.  This was a relief to hear.  I remember so well experiencing postpartum and walking down the rows in the grocery store slowly feeling paralyzed with indecision.  I remember fear and sadness–utter confusion because I had no idea what to put in my cart.  What on earth is wrong with me?  It’s just picking up a few groceries.  But, should I buy 2% or skim, or is it true about dairy being detrimental–should I buy soy?  Should I buy organic–but it’s so expensive.  But then, what about the fertilizers, etc.?

House hunting during my lowest depression to date created exhaustion, confusion, and deeper depression.  One Dr. advised us to wait six months to make a decision–considering the mental state I was in, but we were reluctant to wait that long.

Euodias: Reading this all is making me realize how depressed I still am. But it is so helpful, recognizing how alone I am not, that other people experience the same feelings, the wanting to cease to exist, to just dissappear.

I too feel like everything is overwheming, and like am failing at everything–raising my children (I am certain anyone else could do it better), my marriage (I feel completely unloved, and unlovable). Meal preparation is unbearable. When I am depressed my children watch a lot of TV–I don’t interact with them- often retreating to my room to sleep.

I feel detached from the rest of humanity, disconnected from other people. I try to pinpoint what is making me sad, or worse, numb, and can’t find anything–but feel like there must be something, I must be doing something wrong. I feel socially awkward and avoid being around other people. I can’t make decisions, and have a hard time even decididing what I like, food, clothes, paint colors-any part of my personality that makes me, me. My sense of humor goes away. Nothing is funny.  I can’t read books. I can’t concentrate.

Deborah: Euodias, I’m sorry this is your reality right now. Depression sucks. Really, really sucks. We understand, and we’re with you all the way.

I know well that sense of failure. It is crushing, and compelling. Now that I’ve spent some time outside of that state of being I can believe that it’s a delusion. Even so, it’s awful when it hits me, and all I can do is hang on to the thin string of logic in my mind that it’s not real and that it will go away at some point. It was far worse, though, before I had that string. I spent so many years convinced that this twisted perspective was the Truth. I had no reason to believe otherwise. The more people tried to convince me that it wasn’t real, the more real it felt to me. They were just trying to make me feel better about being such a loser, I thought. Or, they’re so blind they can’t see the truth — they’re in denial and I’m the only one who sees things as they really are.

Lydia: When you’re in the middle of depression, it seems like reality–either you or other people, or your situation, or some combination–things really are that hard, you really are that lame, people really are that mean or annoying or complicated or noisy.  Reading and writing about it has helped me step outside enough to actually see the depression.

It’s been freeing, for me, to see real reality:  I’m depressed.  I feel like I have permission–and attention–now to do something about it.  I’ve upped the dose of the supplement I’m taking, I’m resting more and nagging myself less.  And even just seeing it for what it is already is making me feel better.  Thanks, Kathy, for creating a safe place to talk about this, and thanks, everyone, for this honest discussion that has helped me see more clearly.

Deborah: Yep, you nailed it, Lydia. Those moments of clarity when you step outside your depression (theoretically) and see it for what it is make all the difference.

I’ll never forget the first time this happened to me. I was on the phone with a friend, crying inconsolably, and she suggested that I might have PPD. I said, “No, I always feel like this. It’s not the baby. I’ve felt this way for as long as I can remember.” And she said, with great gentleness, “Okay then, don’t you think it’s time you did something about it?” In that moment I stepped outside myself and realized how stuck I’d been. I’d thought that the strong, responsible thing to do was to tough it out and not “give in” to the idea that I was truly depressed. That sounds so strange now, but it made perfect sense to my depressed self. When the big “aha” lightbulb turned on I realized that the strong, responsible thing to do was get help for myself. Instead of using my willpower to “beat” the depression through resistance and denial, I needed to use my willpower to treat the condition. So obvious, and yet so counterintuitive to a depressed mind.

That initial breakthrough has made all the difference for me. These days, when I need to, I can get un-stuck mentally, like Lydia just did. It doesn’t make the depression go away–I need to emphasize that, because I think it’s a terribly dangerous thing to suggest that clinically depressed people can just snap out of it. My feelings don’t change. But my interpretation of my feelings can change.

Before that first breakthrough I didn’t have any other ground to stand on, no spot within myself where I could observe myself with clarity. It’s like my mind was a radio with only one channel, one full of distortion and static.

Hannah: I’ve been hesitant to respond, because my personal experiences with depression have not, for the most part, been chronic or severe. Most of my experience comes from living with and loving people suffering from depression. But I can certainly relate to that feeling of heaviness and darkness and it was all very real to me.

My first bout was with postpartum depression. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me at first, but I felt a heaviness on my heart and my mind. It affected my whole body, really. I was tired and lethargic and I remember actually feeling guilty for not feeling joy. I didn’t do much other than take care of my baby (who was colicky and who didn’t sleep or nap well). But when I did do something I had a vague awareness that I was mostly just going through the motions. I felt like I was having to fake it just to have a normal conversation with someone. I remember sensing the falseness of my voice and my heart and feeling like I was not being true to myself being so miserable or pretending to be happy or normal when I wasn’t feeling that way at all.

I think I began to suspect postpartum depression (although that was over 20 years ago and no one talked about depression then) when I stopped answering the phone because every time I did I would have to fight to keep myself from bursting into tears. One of the most frustrating memories I have at that time was when I finally had the courage to bring it up with my doctor at one of my postpartum check-ups and being told it was all in my head. (At least I had the presence of mind to break up with that doctor. Someone else delivered my next child.)

The next time I dealt with depression I think it may have been more SAD (which, apparently, my father had) than postpartum depression. At that time we lived in a tiny basement apartment. While I somehow managed to clothe and feed the kids, I was completely overwhelmed by the rest of my life and was probably only barely functional. My house was a wreck (more extreme than the usual state of chaos in which we sometimes live) and I was just not managing. I don’t believe I realized I was depressed until I started to come out of it. An experience I had with my youngest best summed up the realization:

We finally moved out of the basement into a house. This home had lots of large windows and I will never forget one of the first mornings we woke up in that home. It was winter still, but that didn’t stop my youngest from exclaiming with wonder and awe: “Mommy, is that the sun?” (Lest you worry about my kids–we did let them out of the apartment to play, so he had seen the sun before, but it was obviously his first time being able to see it while still inside a house. He wasn’t used to a constant awareness it.)

I didn’t realize I’d been living in darkness until I first recognized the sun again.

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We’re going to pause here and open up the discussion for reader comments. Our second post in this series will be about depression and spirituality–look for it on Sunday, March 6.

Related posts:

1. UP CLOSE: Depression Roundtable Series Overview
2. UP CLOSE for March: Depression Roundtable
3. Crazy Club

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