My mother was never professionally diagnosed with clinical depression but in an experience she related to me back in 2009, I became convinced that she suffered from more than just mild depression or sadness at a certain point in her life.
I was still a toddler and my mother had to make a run to the only bank in our small town. The bank had a walk-up teller window and cars needed to be parked on a steep incline to access the window area. After conducting her transaction--as she told it--she got back into the car and like a thunderbolt, the sadness and grief she was experiencing manifested in a horrific thought. Long before the lawful requirement of car baby seats, I was happily bouncing around unbelted in the front passenger seat. She put the car into gear and briefly considered ending it all by running full speed into a solid brick wall a block away. She thought it would be the fastest and least painful way to die. What alarmed me was not that she briefly considered suicide as a remedy to her problems. I mean, we've all had thoughts of suicide at one time or another with no serious intention of carrying them out. But what told me that my mother was seriously, clinically depressed--not to mention alarming for purely selfish reasons--was the fact that she was willing to disregard the toddler seated next to her. Me!
She recounted this story while I was visiting her in Pennsylvania several years before her death and just four years before my father passed away. The subject came up matter-of-factly as we were talking about recognizing the difference between "feeling down" and full-fledged depression. At the time, my dad was declining rapidly from advanced Parkinson's Disease and frequent bouts of dementia. Her plate was full but her dedication to my father was admirable and selfless. It caused me to think about all of the times in her life when she was saddled with five children and struggling just to make it through each day. It also made me appreciate how so many of her generation regarded professional help as stigmatizing and markers of inadequacy. Professional help may have alleviated so much pain.
Shortly after I was diagnosed with a life-altering prognosis and began to feel the helplessness and despair that came with it, I was primed for my own bout with clinical depression. I feel extremely fortunate that I was able to work through this time with a qualified and understanding therapist. Any thoughts that may have prevented my mother from seeking such care were far from my own mind at the time.
As we now see the lingering, collective effects of COVID in our lives, I gently suggest to friends who are struggling that they shouldn't rule out therapy. Sometimes, professional help can literally mean the difference between life and death. I'm glad mom didn't choose death despite never seeking professional help. I'm also glad that I'm alive to tell this story.
(my mother at home. November, 1962)
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