I’m surprised that people responded to my post about wanting to die probably because I’m used to being ignored when I need help the most. That’s right – ignored. It’s called growing up with a depressed, emotionally distant mother who was too preoccupied with her own problems to give her baby girl the nurturing and love she needed. Sneer if you want. Whatever. I don’t give a fuck. I’ve spent years in therapy, group therapy, on medications, making crazy, fucked up choices that intellectually I could not defend or understand yet I acted on anyway. I finally, finally put it all together: not enough of mama’s love. My dependencies, choices, desires, hopes are connected by that simple thread. I’ve been chasing my mother’s love for all of these years and sadly, I never got it, and truthfully, I probably never will.
The summer I was four or five I accidentally threw myself into my uncle’s pool while hurdling a huge beach ball across the water. Down, down, down I went. At least that’s how I remember it. That summer something shifted because it was the last time I remember being happy. Fast forward 25 years later and I am sitting in a therapist’s office. She asks if I’ve ever tried antidepressants. I freeze. The prospect sounded terrifying. Yet, I agreed to a psychiatric visit and shortly after that was prescribed Prozac and then the world came alive for the first time since that summer so long ago. The elation didn’t last.
I still take antidepressants to this day and they have in many ways helped me tremendously but not enough. What’s the point of all this? The point is that I’ve been depressed for a very long time. It is a chronic condition that I will have to manage for the rest of my crummy life, if it comes to that. I’ve gotten much better but at a huge price. When I finally got a handle on my depression at age 30 I slowly came see realized the havoc it had wrought. I missed out on making the CRITICAL connections and life experiences that you are suppose to make as a child and teenager that help you form into an independent adult, happy adult.
So I spent all that time, all those miserable years suffering only to discover that there was so much more work ahead, work that probably could have been avoided if I had just gotten the help I needed when I needed it instead of being IGNORED. And I ask, why did’t anyone notice that I was so sad? Why didn’t anyone DO ANYTHING????????? Yes, that question is directed at both my parents and the fucking retard adults who surrounded me.At least my dad showed affection, love, and interest even if he couldn’t admit that something was wrong with his little girl. My mother couldn’t even do that.