My dad does this thing where if I complain about something he comes back with “Well at least you…”
“It’s so hard having Cody gone at school all the time.”
“Well at least you know where he is, he’s not off in Afghanistan somewhere getting shot at.”
“Addie won’t sleep, she’s up crying every night and I don’t know what to do.”
“Well at least you have a baby, imagine all those moms with dead babies.”
We all kind of hate it. I’m not sure if it’s because it’s true or because it hurts so bad to be told your pain and difficulties aren’t all that valid because someone out there has it worse.
I remember in high school a time that I took a lot of pills. A lot. I’m not entirely sure what my goal was in doing it, I was an angsty teenager desperate for attention. I remember arguing with my mom, her berating me for being so distant, when I told her about the pills. She got this look on her face, so disgusted with me. All she could say was “Why the hell would you do that?”
There came a point in my relationship with my mom that I wouldn’t talk to her without a licensed therapist between us. She got us in with someone and when that someone came to the conclusion that something more needed to be done, medicinally,we never returned to the therapist again.
Obviously these are my memories of occasions, I’ve never really discussed them at length with either of my parents. And it’s not my intention to hurt them or paint them in a bad light. They were both raised so differently than one another and I realized a long time ago that there comes a point where I can’t blame my parents anymore because my life isn’t what I expected. They both did the best they knew how with the anomaly that was me.
When I was younger I could mask the pain I’m feeling now with alcohol, drugs and boys. I still remember the first time I had to face my real feelings head on without the perceived safety of reckless behavior.
It was like running full force into a brick wall.
That is how it still feels when I come up against this.
There’s no easy way to cover up this kind of pain and sadness. There’s no bandaid for depression. Alcohol and drugs were crutches for me, they held me above the misery long enough to get through another day.
When it comes to depression there’s only a very long, ugly, dark and uncertain road back to a place you think you remember.
I don’t know why this disease chose me. I don’t know how bad mine is compared to every one else’s but I don’t really care.
I hurt right now. And there’s no quick and easy way out of it that won’t cause pain to either myself or those around me.
The only way is through.
And I’m fighting like hell to make it.