Patrons of the Depressed Writer

Behind every published story, there is a pair of aging parents squinting on their phones, searching in all the wrong places for their daughter's new work.

No matter how many times she shows them the way, there will still be questions.

Why can't I see your story?

I forgot my password!

How do I get this working again?

But it's all in the spirit of support and love, as these particular parents have changed radically from the early years of their daughters seemingly rebellious and tumultuous teenage years, to the daunting reality of their adult child diagnosed with severe mental health ailments.

This is that daughter's letter to them:

Dear Mom & Dad,

I know I haven't been the most easy child to raise. Maybe at first it seemed that way. From the age of 4 I had a mind of my own, taking charge of my own wants and leading others out of tough spots.

Climbing in and out of my own crib? Check. Getting my kindergarten class to follow directions at a stage play? Check. Being awarded and recognized for my academic achievements? Check.

I was, for all tense and purposes, the perfect child with a bright future ahead of her.

And then my body betrayed me.

I will never forget those years in high school. Not for the fact that they were 'my best years', but that they were some of my worst.

I remember feeling so out of balance; so confused and terrified of my own thoughts and emotions. I came to you at 14 and asked to visit a therapist. There was no hesitation to your acceptance.

The diagnosis came: major depressive disorder, and the rest came like a torrent.

There were fights. There were insults exchanged. There were tears and desperate cries spread throughout these years, but never once did you forsake me. Never once did you turn me away when I asked for help.

Even when I left to study in college, I don't think any of us quite realized how sick I was and would become. I don't think I even realized the gravity of the danger I was in until your phone calls came daily, and your constant offers of travel became fevered pleas for me to accept help.

When I came home, it took some time to adjust to the new reality of my condition. It wasn't easy. It was painful. I was...difficult.

We all made mistakes, but we stuck together, because that's what family is.

It took many years to find understanding between us and my disorder, but I would not change any of it for the world as who we are now is so much more precious than anything I had before.

You learned how to encourage rather than reprimand. You learned how to listen rather than smother. You learned to hold me rather than give me space.

I would not be here without you - in more ways than one.

And while you learned so did I; to listen to your fears, your hopes. To offer comfort rather than rage. To realize the humans behind the title of 'parent' were just as prone to pain as I.

Dad, you taught me to be curious about the world. You taught me the importance of looking up at the sky with more than a passing glance; to give the light of the stars a proper witness to their thousand-year-long journey.

Mom, you taught me to feel beyond my own body; to consider the lives of those on the fringes. A compassionate heart, while more prone to injury, will never outshine a cold stone.

Both of you give me the strength to do the things I fear - the things I sometimes wonder are impossible.

Thank you for giving me this time, this place, this space to heal, grow and learn from two very amazing people.

With all the love this bruised heart can muster,

Your Amanda