It was once believed that “refrigerator mothers” caused autism. Later vaccines were blamed. The truth is, as the parent of a kid on the spectrum, the cause is unimportant. My son is wonderful, quirky, annoying, and perfect. Why should it matter at all to me why he became the way he is? Still, I occasionally get the nagging voice in my head that questions whether or not I somehow caused it. I definitely had a hard time bonding with him and as infant and then went back to work after my maternity leave ended. There is also the fact that his sister was born just a year after him. Maybe he wasn’t socialized like he should have been. Maybe if I had bonded with him as a tiny infant. Maybe if I hadn’t worked those long days. Maybe…
My daughter has depression, and I sometimes think about her in similar ways. What did I do that caused this? The truth is, for both of them, they were probably born this way. My daughter was born into a family with a history of depression. Let’s chalk this one up to nature.
I was also born into a family with a history of depression, but I was diagnosed in a time when depression was less visible. People didn’t talk about it, they whispered. I spent months in a psychiatric hospital in Atlanta when I was first diagnosed. I celebrated my 15th birthday there. I was in individual therapy, group therapy, art therapy, music therapy, and on just about every medication available trying to find the right treatment. It was a positive experience. I have no regrets. My family and my church knew what was going on and I never got any since that I was being judged. In hindsight, I know I was pretty fortunate to have that kind of support.
The thing with being so open about this situation is that people start to feel more comfortable talking to you about it. They feel comfortable giving advice. Advice from armchair psychiatrists or worse, armchair theologians.
The experience I am recounting comes from the 1990s, a time when hospitals were advertising on television, listing the symptoms of depression and their inpatient treatment options. That’s where I learned about depression, an ad for Charter Peachford Hospital. People were skeptical about the diagnosis. Being sad is not a mental illness! Combine that skepticism with a Christian worldview, and my depression was not an illness, I just needed to get my relationship right with God. I needed to pray more. I needed Bible study. I needed to go to church. I needed to get saved. I was giving advice by loving, well meaning, people who genuinely wanted to help me, but there advice was bad. It made things more confusing, more complicated.
In the hospital, there was a focus on figuring out what the triggers were for depression, drug use, whatever. I was a kid, so triggers equaled cause, so the question because what caused my depression? What happened? What did I do? Add to that confusion, the advice I was receiving from well meaning people and voila; I am the cause of my depression! So now all I have to do to recover from my depression is to live up to some standard that I don’t understand and cannot measure, but I’ll know it when I get there because my depression will be gone. Right? My poor depressed brain. Can you imagine the pressure? What do you do when you have depression and are under that much pressure? You give up. Why even bother?
The truth is, just like my daughter, this is a point for nature. I just have a brain that is prone to depression. It will probably always be that way, and that is okay. I have to stop asking why. Why doesn’t matter. The question that needs my attention is “How?” How do I cope? How do I view the world? How do I stand up for myself?
The funny thing is, part of how I cope, is through my relationship with Christ. Those people with their advice, weren’t that far off. Part of my self care routine is spending time with God in prayer. I have a spot in my house where I can sit and look out the window into my back yard. My dog and cats come sit with my while I drink my coffee and read a short devotional and pray. This time is peaceful and meaningful. It helps me remember to see the world the way God does. I can get through the bad times knowing that I have hope in Christ. I can cope with the lonely times knowing that He is always with me. I can handle the fear knowing He is in control. I can look at my daughter during her bad times and know that there is hope for her, too. And for my son, my husband, and the world.
My daughter has depression, and I sometimes think about her in similar ways. What did I do that caused this? The truth is, for both of them, they were probably born this way. My daughter was born into a family with a history of depression. Let’s chalk this one up to nature.
I was also born into a family with a history of depression, but I was diagnosed in a time when depression was less visible. People didn’t talk about it, they whispered. I spent months in a psychiatric hospital in Atlanta when I was first diagnosed. I celebrated my 15th birthday there. I was in individual therapy, group therapy, art therapy, music therapy, and on just about every medication available trying to find the right treatment. It was a positive experience. I have no regrets. My family and my church knew what was going on and I never got any since that I was being judged. In hindsight, I know I was pretty fortunate to have that kind of support.
The thing with being so open about this situation is that people start to feel more comfortable talking to you about it. They feel comfortable giving advice. Advice from armchair psychiatrists or worse, armchair theologians.
The experience I am recounting comes from the 1990s, a time when hospitals were advertising on television, listing the symptoms of depression and their inpatient treatment options. That’s where I learned about depression, an ad for Charter Peachford Hospital. People were skeptical about the diagnosis. Being sad is not a mental illness! Combine that skepticism with a Christian worldview, and my depression was not an illness, I just needed to get my relationship right with God. I needed to pray more. I needed Bible study. I needed to go to church. I needed to get saved. I was giving advice by loving, well meaning, people who genuinely wanted to help me, but there advice was bad. It made things more confusing, more complicated.
In the hospital, there was a focus on figuring out what the triggers were for depression, drug use, whatever. I was a kid, so triggers equaled cause, so the question because what caused my depression? What happened? What did I do? Add to that confusion, the advice I was receiving from well meaning people and voila; I am the cause of my depression! So now all I have to do to recover from my depression is to live up to some standard that I don’t understand and cannot measure, but I’ll know it when I get there because my depression will be gone. Right? My poor depressed brain. Can you imagine the pressure? What do you do when you have depression and are under that much pressure? You give up. Why even bother?
The truth is, just like my daughter, this is a point for nature. I just have a brain that is prone to depression. It will probably always be that way, and that is okay. I have to stop asking why. Why doesn’t matter. The question that needs my attention is “How?” How do I cope? How do I view the world? How do I stand up for myself?
The funny thing is, part of how I cope, is through my relationship with Christ. Those people with their advice, weren’t that far off. Part of my self care routine is spending time with God in prayer. I have a spot in my house where I can sit and look out the window into my back yard. My dog and cats come sit with my while I drink my coffee and read a short devotional and pray. This time is peaceful and meaningful. It helps me remember to see the world the way God does. I can get through the bad times knowing that I have hope in Christ. I can cope with the lonely times knowing that He is always with me. I can handle the fear knowing He is in control. I can look at my daughter during her bad times and know that there is hope for her, too. And for my son, my husband, and the world.
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| Around the time I was hospitalized |
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