I worry a lot……I worry about work I worry about paying bills and most of all I worry about T. I worry I do not do enough I worry that I am not there enough I worry that I am not showing him enough love or time. I worry non-stop that I am failing him as a mom. Will there ever come a time when I can look at my child and say I have given him my all or will I always worry that I could give him so much more. He is my sun and my moon. He is why I get up in the morning and laugh. He is a dream come true and I am lucky to have him……But I shall always worry that I am failing him.
Written by me Oct. 13/16
The above popped up on my FB memories Friday. As I read over it, my heart ached for how vulnerable and scared I was. How as I began to walk the twisted path of my depression, I could not see where I was headed. But this tells me. However, that is not what this blog is about.
I no longer worry that I am going to fail T. I do worry that I let him spend too much time on the computer either watching Youtube or playing his Scrap Mechanic or Minecraft. I worry that I don’t make him read enough but on the other hand I do not want to make him hate reading. I do worry that I don’t talk to him enough although he reassures me all the time that I talk more than enough for both of us.
As a mom, my main job besides loving T is to turn him into a semblance of a productive member of society. Which means laying down some ground rules. Teaching him responsibility. Disabusing him of the notion that he and he alone matters in the world. I try to open his eyes to the differences around him so that he sees people and lives, nothing else.
I have taught him a fair share of my bad habits as well. He is sarcastic. He always has to have the final word. He likes to procrastinate. Whether he realizes it or not, he likes words which is a bonus in my book. (By the way, the word thing not a bad habit)
Overall, as I look at the young man T is growing into, I am fairly confident that he is going to turn into that productive member of society that I want him to be. There are still going to be some struggles ahead (I mean c’mon, he is a boy about to go into puberty and yeah, how do I handle that one?) so you may want to check back with me in a year or so to see if I am still writing and singing his praises.
So your friend, your mother, your sister, your brother etc are depressed. And you call them with the best intentions. You are calling to give them support, offer your love and devotion, tell them that they are not alone. And yet at the end of the call when they are sobbing and assuring you it is not your fault, you are stuck wondering what the fuck you did.
You were nice. You said the right words, your mouthed the right platitudes, but in the end, you just do not get it.
Depression is not easily understood. You cannot talk to someone else about it. You cannot ask them for their experience. Because what they have gone through I have not! My loathing and disgust has no bearing on someone else’s. I am angry and no, I will not benefit from talking to someone because at 44 years old, I already know all the shit that is wrong with me. I know my triggers and I know that my dad was an asshole but that is another story.
I have spoken to therapists and counsellors. I have gorged my pain and reiterated the loathing. That is no longer the issue here. The issue is my seratonin levels are fucked up. There is something wrong with my brain chemistry. And I am okay with that. What I need to do is suck it up and accept it.
But this post is not really about me. It is for those who are confused because they reached out, they were supportive, they wanted to understand and yet you sobbed, you stammered, you made no sense. And the whole reason behind that is that they were nice to you. It is the niceness that is the killer. For my sake……this might not be for all who live with depression so sound it out first…..do not be nice to me.