When Your Child Suffers From Depression

Depression.

epressi

It’s such a horrible word. Not just a horrible word but a horrible affliction.

If you have ever found yourself in epression’s clutches, you know the feeling of hopelessness you experience. The fear that you will never escape it. The feeling of being lost. The feeling that the world has gone dark and there are boogeymen around every corner waiting to jump out at you.

You think depression is going to hang around forever. That you will remain at the bottom of a deep well of darkness from which there is no way out.

If you have ever experienced depression and have come out on the other side of it, you know how difficult—and seemingly impossible—it is to recover. If you have, you have discovered an inner strength you didn’t realize you possessed. You came out of depression with a better understanding of it and yourself and with the knowledge that you can weather it again if you have to. You know how to help yourself.

But what if the one who is depressed is your child?

As a mother, it breaks my heart to see my son suffer. I cry when he calls me in tears. My mama heart cries thinking of him being in such a dark place and feeling so alone. Feeling that no one understands. Feeling that he will always be like this. Feeling so afraid.

The sense of helplessness I felt when I was going through my own epression is nothing compared to the helplessness I feel watching my son, my sweet boy, battle this cruel, unseen enemy.

I feel responsible for his epression. I know that it is genetic—it is as rampant in my family as diabetes. I feel guilty knowing that I passed on this terrible, dreadful condition to him. But did I contribute to it in other ways? Was my divorce from his father the catalyst? He was only 15 at the time. Such a difficult age. Was it selfish of us not to wait a bit longer? Was I present enough? Was I too hard on him? Too lenient?

All of these thoughts run through my head. I also wonder what I can do to help him. Talking to him about my own experience doesn’t seem to help. Telling him what I have learned and the techniques I use to keep myself in a better state of mind falls on deaf ears. Hugs and kisses offer littlecomfort. But he’s my son and I want—no, I need—to help him.

I can extend my arm as far as I can to take him by the hand and lift him up but I can’t do that if he won’t let me. I can throw a life preserver to him to keep him from sinking further but it won’t do any good if he refuses to take it. Everyone who loves him is rooting for him. We —me, his dad, his grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends—know he is worth fightingor. But ultimately, he has to believe that he’s worth it. It’s up to him to get better. He has to believe that he can and will.

My son has finally sought counseling, for which I am thankful. He has the presence of mind to know that he needs help with this fight. I don’t know if there is anything more I can say to help him. But there is one thing I can do and will always do. I can love him. Hard. And that’s exactly what I intend to do.