Depression and Me

Responding to "Mental Illness: The Stigma of Silence" by Glenn Close.

I didn't originally plan to talk about mental illness in this blog, but to not do so is to silence a piece of me. I have struggled with depression off and on for the vast majority of my life. My mother was the first to tell me that depression runs in my family, that her mother suffered, that her brother committed suicide, that her sister had trouble participating in life. And yet, when she discovered that I too struggle from it, her first response was to silence me: what would people think? Oh, the stigma.

I really don't care what people think. I came out to my friends and a couple professors as depressed, and while a few stated that they thought differently of me because of that, they didn't stop being my friend.

"What mental health needs is more sunlight, more candor, more unashamed conversation about illnesses that affect not only individuals, but their families as well. Our society ought to understand that many people with mental illness, given the right treatment, can be full participants in our society."

When I have difficulty functioning, I rely more on my husband and children to pick up the slack. I have sought treatment to stabilize my moods, which clears my thinking (it gets foggy, and I have difficulty thinking things through), and gives me the energy to survive.

This is a process. I don't know how I managed to convince myself that I could explore the reaches of my psyche without once again unleashing depression, how I could possibly talk about the experiences of my life without discussing depression.

Depression is part of me. But it doesn't have to define me. I don't have to let it hinder me.