A depressed mother wonders what will happen to her children when they grow up

  • My depression started when I was about to finish college and never left.
  • Two weeks after my wedding, I committed suicide.
  • As a parent, I wonder how depression can affect my voice.

Note: This article is about suicide.

My favorite number is probably 5150. When used by the police and mental health professionals, this is a dangerous code in itself.

I’ve been to 5150 twice. I’ve been depressed almost all my life. Sometimes there is a situational reason; sometimes not. When I go out in the bright sun, I can only see the gray color. When I find it very difficult to eat, I go hungry. At times, it may seem that getting dressed is not easy.

My diagnosis


depression

When I was about to drop out of college because of my undiagnosed disability, I returned home for treatment. That summer my father was diagnosed with lung cancer. I had been married for two years, and two weeks later she committed suicide for the first time. Years later, depression is still with me.

Therapy and medication helped a bit

I didn’t want to kill myself, but the idea of ​​sleeping for a long time and waking up with all my problems was pleasant. Even though the doctors changed the dose and increased the dose, my depression did not let me go. Therapy and medication helped, but my mental illness continued, but I struggled.

After the birth of my sons in 2003 and 2006, I was forced to stop taking medication during my pregnancy and became even more depressed. I couldn’t see the joy in this new life or feel the love that new moms are saying. My heart was not opened, but my brain was closed. I hired a babysitter and a housemaid to stay in bed.

During the second trimester of my pregnancy, I lost my job for months. Sometimes I could fake it, but most of the time I was under a thunderstorm.

On the first anniversary of my miscarriage, we decided to leave the city. But I was discouraged and could not bear to go.

The day before, I had undergone therapy and admitted that I wanted to die.

When I told my husband I couldn’t go, he took his children and left anyway. After a few hours, I was relieved to be free to travel, and I felt better.

My therapist called to check on me, but I didn’t answer the phone. So he called the police to check 5150. When they heard about my situation, they handcuffed me and put me in the back of the detachment’s car until someone came and took me away.

I was taken away in front of my children

After my divorce, my ex-husband called me “mentally unstable” and “crazy” and armed my depression. One day I wrote something dangerous and mysterious on Facebook, my friend called the police and he took me to the ambulance – this time in front of my little ones – 5150.

Instead of going to the police station, I was voluntarily taken to a psychiatric hospital. I became depressed and sick because of the way my ex-husband treated me.

Only then did my boyfriend tell me how bad he was: I slept all day. The dogs were urinating in the house. I didn’t take good care of the children when the babysitter wasn’t there.

Now, five years later, everything is different. I have a working medicine, a regular therapist who understands me, and a life coach. I often get up and work. My boyfriend is behind me in my absence. No matter how long my depression lasts, days or weeks, we know what to expect, no matter how many pauses I make. Like caring for my sons and my home, I have learned to give strength and do what I need to do, even in the deepest of circumstances. Gone are the days of hiding under a blanket. Gone are the days of remorse for being the same.

I wonder how depression affects my children. I wonder if they noticed what I did when I was a child.

My youngest son, now a teenager, is very sensitive to my mood and facial expressions. When I fell asleep, he asked me if I was upset. If I don’t smile, she worries. She is scared to say that I am depressed or in pain. He cares, but he wants to be angry with her too. I am not like other mothers.

I worry that my mental illness has affected not only me but also my children. They may remember that I was in bed, that I didn’t talk to them, and that I was sick. Or maybe they remember the long days in Legoland, the Christmas holidays, the trips, the volunteers in their classes, and the birthdays I spent. Do not know.

I know that one of the biggest memories I have of being a parent is when I’m depressed.

To protect the privacy of her children, the author asked not to be named.

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