Depression Runs in My Family
When I was three years old, my mother spent time in a mental institution (called an insane asylum in those days) after my brother Joe was born. Later in life, Joe became a Vietnam vet who never fully recovered emotionally after he returned home from war. My sister also suffered from severe depression.
My first deep depression was in 1973 when the business my first husband and I had went bust during the recession that year. I went to bed and stayed there, unable to lift my head from the pillow. A horrible feeling of dread and panic consumed me.
Silently I grieved for my four terrified children who ranged in age from 4 to 13. Seeing their almost-catatonic mother lie in bed day after day for weeks scared the hell out of them. Knowing the pain I caused them made my pain even more severe.
As I write this, I can picture them coming into my room, sitting on my bed, watching my face; their lips quivering from holding back tears. The youngest didn’t hold back though. She wailed for me. They’d all snuggle up close; the younger ones burrowing under the covers until my bed looked like bumps on the top crust of a homemade apple pie.
In those days it was shameful to admit that you needed help solving mental problems. Or even to talk to anyone about something potentially embarrassing that was happening in your family, so I did not get any medical help or emotional support.
The end of my depression began several weeks later when a friend visited and left a book, Mystic Path to Cosmic Power by Vernon Howard, next to me on my pillow. Even though I had already read it several times in the late 1960s, I slowly began to read it again. The spiritual practices in that book reminded me of the soul-soothing inner work they had provided me in the past and I began practicing them again. Little by little I pulled myself out of that frightful nightmare. Life returned to normal.
Almost two decades later, my second major episode of clinical depression happened. My primary care doctor put me on an antidepressant, and it worked! The medication allowed me to be normal, like a well-tended pressure cooker.
It worked so well that I actually forgot what the ravages of life – which were now manageable – felt like before antidepressants. However, some spiritual teachers that I admired harshly criticized the use of antidepressants and I took it to heart. Ten years after getting on the antidepressant, I decided I was strong enough to come off it. So I did.
That was a big mistake. It had saved my life and given me the psychic space to actually have a life again – a wonderful life. After several months of abstinence from the medication, that dreadful horror descended on me again. I could not remember how it felt not to be depressed. I could not imagine what joy felt like.
I went back on the antidepressant (this time at a higher dose) and it took over a month to kick in. But it worked! I love my life – it’s fun, exciting and often blissful – and yes, it has to include the medication. I am not weak; I am strong enough to recognize my need for medical support. Now I bless the antidepressant and am determined never to go off it again.
Perhaps my journey into and out of the depths of despair will encourage someone who is suffering from depression to seek medical help. If you have any comments, please add them below. Thanks.
Love and Blessings,
Ellen
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