Calling on line one: asking for reassurance

I hate that one of my kids is struggling with clinical depression. I really do. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, since my family’s DNA is a rich broth of bad eyesight, crooked teeth, questionable hearing, and clinical depression. Going back several generations, the old black-and-white family portraits of my ancestors depict stern, thin-lipped farm folk in uncomfortably tight clothing and eyes cast downward. I know these photographs came before the age of “Say cheese!” but these earnest, hardworking relatives don’t exactly look like they’d be the life of the party.

Having been through the depressed mental wringer for most of my life, I’ve finally reached an age where depression no longer controls me. Let me be clear: it’s not gone, but the power dynamic shifted somewhere in my 40s — yes, it took that long — as a result of therapy, medicine, and a whole lot of trial by error. Still, this doesn’t make me feel especially qualified to help others. When it comes to my kids, though, I have to at least try. I owe them that.

“Mom, I’m calling you for some reassurance.”

The thin voice at the other end of the call is my son, living two states away, doing his best to navigate his way through a college degree while fighting against a nasty depressive episode. It’s been trying its damnedest to keep him down.

I’ve been keeping tabs on him: sending him photos or funny videos in the mornings, texting words of encouragement, or sometimes talking on the phone before bed. I can usually tell within the first few seconds of hearing his voice how he’s feeling. Depression has a way of flattening the voice and extinguishing the sparkle in one’s eyes. I know he’s been in touch with his doctor, and that they have a plan underway to get him feeling better. But these things take time.

The worst thing about depression — one of the worst — is the way it tricks your brain into thinking you aren’t good enough, smart enough, disciplined enough, or even loveable enough. While this private beatdown is happening inside your head, you’re walking around with not so much as a limp or a rash to signal to the outside world that you are suffering. Instead, your behavior can easily be misconstrued by others as laziness, stand-offishness, or even antisocial.

I can reassure him that he is smart, capable, and a wonderful friend and brother. I can reassure that how he feels today will not last forever; it’s temporary. He won’t believe me, but I’ll say it anyway. I want him to know that none of this is his fault — genetics can be both a blessing and a curse — and yes, this is really difficult and unfair. No one should feel this way.

Thank goodness my son didn’t call me asking for answers — I don’t have any of those hidden in my pocket. But reassurance? Yes, I can give him that. I can tell him about some of my very dark days. He witnessed many of them: throughout his childhood, there were days when Mommy couldn’t stop crying or could barely get out of bed. I hope some of those memories are hazy at best. Childhood memories can be mercifully spotty. Days like these are so hard, a lot like trudging through waist-deep mud. But we can review the things he has the power to do: write in a journal, prioritize good food and sleep, and stay connected to a trusted medical professional. Oh, also: call Mom for reassurance. I will always answer that call.

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