My grandmother didn’t appear
to suffer from depression even though she didn’t have it any better than her mother.
Married to a man 40+ years older than her, she raised his 11 kids from two
previous deceased wives plus the five he gave her and took care of him when he
became bedridden. This, all while working a hard-scrabble farm with no
amenities. I was even born in her cabin in front of the fireplace which was the
warmest place available, and my uncle served as my incubator until my mother was
ready to have me with her.
Grandma, too, had a hard
life and was part of my life from the very beginning. I don’t remember her ever
dwelling on the hardships she endured or thinking or believing she had a hard
life. In fact, she was upbeat, amusing and looked for and found silver linings
in whatever clouds passed her way. She even had fond memories and often told
stores about her good old days .
My mother was the
antithesis of my grandma once we moved to the city. Before that, as a
stay-at-home mom, she baked and sang and kept the house immaculate. I remember
these as very happy times. Once we left the hills for the city, things changed.
Dad was injured, then couldn’t find a job and so she had to go to work to keep
the family going. That, and easy access to print, radio and television
advertising (or so I think) did affect her view toward life, and it wasn’t ever
positive again as long as she lived.
I had a wonderful
childhood and life was very good until later on. The doctor told me I
suffered from depression and prescribed antidepressants. I would take them for
a time, then stop, become depressed and the cycle would repeat. Finally, my
doctor told me I was to be commended for not becoming an alcoholic or drug
user, but I simply had to accept the fact my chemical composition was such that
without my medication I would be depressed. So, basically, knock it off and
take your pill every day.
What made me think about
this was some time I spent with a friend. I know this friend, like me, suffers
from depression. I’m sure we both take our medication, but there are still times
when life seems to be more than we can handle. So, we withdraw from our
friends, stop doing much of anything and have private pity parties. Of course,
we both know getting out and about, accomplishing a chore; basically doing
anything that brings a positive gain to our lives will help alleviate that
depression.
Today, depression isn’t
totally viewed as a disease to be ashamed of, but there is still (I think) a
stigma attached to being a sufferer of depression. I mean, really, logically,
what do I have to be depressed about? I’ve
been married forever to a man who’s not perfect (but then neither am I); and
together we have two independent and wonderful sons whose wives make them happy
and grandchildren we absolutely adore. We both managed to retire; and while not
jetting around the world on a regular basis, don’t have to worry about having a
roof over our heads or food on the table.
Today, my life is a 1,000
(or more) times better than that of my great-grandmother with far fewer reasons
to be depressed. I have learned I can choose not to be depressed by
getting busy, calling friends, working out, accomplishing a major project,
doing things that make me feel good. Most of the time, this is the choice I
make. So, why are other days so difficult, and why on those days, do I choose
to be depressed? I don’t really have an answer to this question, I just know now
and then, no matter what, life and depression sucks.
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