Stacey Wells

Depression is Sly My Trans son was telling a story at the dinner table recently about the, “Breaking Down the Walls” event he was asked to participate in at school. They asked the student to raise their hand if they have someone in their life who lives with depression or anxiety, or who has considered suicide. My son told us he raised his hand. When my stepson said, “Who do you know that has considered suicide?”, and like a brother would do, my Trans son rolled his eyes and said, “Mom.”, then looked over at me with warmth in his eyes. We’re very close. My stepson shot a look at me and exclaimed, “But you’re so happy!” I looked at him and was reminded that invisible disabilities are as easily hidden as they are unnoticed by people who aren’t really looking, or don’t know what to look for. I told him that there are a lot of people with functioning depression who appear differently from how they feel, whether it’s a mask they can put on or they’ve just learned how to manage it with yoga, meditation and diet, among other self-care options. Depression is sly. One day it’s sunny and the next span of time (time is different there) it’s dark and I’m angry, frustrated and scattered…and I don’t know why I stopped feeling happy even though things still make me laugh. Functional depression is easy to hide because you look just like everyone else. I can still go to work and feed my family, but I can also hide it from myself. I was anxious and couldn’t sleep. So I did what I usually do: I snapped at everyone, ground my teeth and felt miserable all the time. My husband reminded me that moving really throws me out of whack. My nest was uprooted again but this time it was worse; the rest of my beloved things had come out of storage, reminding me of that place I lived years ago when I was scared and submissive. You’d think it was obvious but depression is sneaky. It helps you box things up tightly so you don’t see them, all the whole whispering in your ear that you’re (I did it again) MY ear that I’m fat, lazy, ugly, incompetent. That I’ve fooled people into thinking I’m good at my job; that I’m a good mom. The only way out of this one was to get completely, irrationally angry at the man I love most, send him all manner of unhinged, passive aggressive texts until I dissolved into a blubbering mess –  I got so angry that I was hyperventilating, refusing to look at him. He is my port in the storm: he listens quietly to everything I splutter, holds me, and talks to me softly, reassuring me that he hears what I’m saying and that we will figure it out together. That putting the house together will take time, but it will get done. That I am beautiful and desirable, and that he will stay here next to me forever, loving and supporting me. I went to work the next day, puffy and spent, but the clouds are grey now instead of black. By the next day, and a night of sleep, I was smiling again and seeing the unpacked boxes and clutter everywhere as separate projects instead of an unholy crap heap. I remember that I can manage all of it; that I have managed it all, and that I don’t have to do it alone. People love me and I don’t have to look at my tattoo to remind me that it will get better. But I do because that’s why it’s there. https://mylifeoutsidemycomfortzone.wordpress.com/2018/11/07/depression-is-sly/