This may be better than reading… forgive the 10pm look of tired.
At one point, long before I had children I figured hey, you’ve done a lot of bad shit, maybe don’t have kids.
But like many other people in this world, I met a man I loved and we made a baby. And then another. And somewhere in between me cutting down on the amount of straight whiskey shots I was taking and the weekly races I run from Spring to Fall, I had come to realize I stopped scrubbing the floors until my cuticles bled and tears fell. Most times I felt frustration, the anger that came flooding after, the thoughts of hurt and pain and anguish- those all kind of just. Well…
they just stopped.
I always wanted children, but that’s a hell of a lot different than having them.
I want to win the lottery, too… but I don’t play the lottery and I do- as you can guess-
have had sex.
And so I have 2 kids and no lottery winnings.
What I mean is, the part of me that liked to cut up my arms and burst into anger and more than contemplated suicide, just went away.
But what if I gave it to them?
I recently spoke to a woman who had lost her son to depression. Yes, I said lost her son to depression, because if you think depression is a choice or even suicide at the point of execution, then you are ignorant to what depression is.
Depression is not being sad for a few days or about one specific thing. It’s a spiral into hell. It’s the deepest part of your psyche lost in a blackness that none would dare imagine. It’s the point of losing feeling- mental and physical. If you’ve ever said, “Ermagherd, like I know, I was so depressed after that test,” you have no fucking idea what depression is.
That being said, I spoke to a woman who had lost her son to depression. And as I listened to her, my insides tore apart. I could feel blood pouring out of my veins and spilling into my body. I was becoming weak. I knew in those moments, as her words flooded my ears, I’d done all of this to my mother… except I lived. And now I was as guilty of torturing my mother as I was of surviving the insanity of bipolar disorder.
And then the ringing in my ears stopped, and my head cleared, and I glanced down… and on my breast laid a sleeping babe. Her skin as pale and creamy as the most perfect complexion could be described. Her chest slowly rising and falling, gentle whimpers leaving her lips. Small fingers gently pulsing on my back.
What if I gave it to her?
Depression is a demon. It finds you staring back at you in the mirror at 2am. Sober as a judge, wondering why you’re awake. Better yet, why you were born. And the mania? Well that plays a role, too. Lurking behind every plan you’ve ever attempted to make. Not letting you leave on time because you didn’t make the bed and the coffee pot is on and you haven’t slept in days and the phone might ring what if the phone rings and you’re not home and you need to turn around and go back because just one. more. thing. And it’s obsession and love, and the worst hate and deepest pain. And you never know what your day may bring, or even if you want the whole day to happen. Maybe you’ll just end it now.
And what if I gave it to them?
My girls. My reason for living. My lowest lows seem to be gone and my highest highs controlled. I seem to be OK. My tears flow without anger or guilt or resentment or fear. Sometimes they are just tears and that’s kind of… well… normal. And that’s ok.
But what if I gave it to them?
And what if he blames me?
And what happens if we lose our loves to depression?
Because of me.
Being a parent is not fun sometimes.
Sometimes, it’s the scariest, most guilt-ridden thing I think one can do to themselves.