The Slow, Dark Weight of Depression

I had never been truly depressed before I faced deep grief with my daughter’s death sixteen years ago. Then it was an unpleasant revelation to experience. I sometimes slept badly, waking in the middle of the night and unable to go back to sleep or unable to sleep for days on end. I exercised multiple times a day in an attempt to get enough of an endorphin hit to keep me going. I had five other children under the age of twelve to care for and had to push myself each day to think of them and believe that they needed me. I despaired of God or an after-life, losing entirely the faith that had held me all my life, and then eventually much of the community I had depended on.

Depression was a slow, dark weight that I carried with me day after day, a never-ending battle to keep going. I tried to hold onto the hope that someday, I would have more energy, that eventually I would get through the grief. I felt so blocked by thoughts of my own guilt in my daughter’s death, guilt that everyone told me was ridiculous, but that I could not let go of. I was not at all sure that anyone actually loved me, and I felt like I was faking it and that I never made it. I hated myself, then hated everyone who ever asked me to do anything — including talk to them. I was full of anger, resentment, and darkness. I was not someone anyone wanted to be around, and yet desperately needed communion with the very people I kept hurting with…