An apology to the depressed.

My depression came to me in the form of postpartum depression. Before that, I had never experienced anything close to it. In fact, I had spent many years thinking of mental illness as a myth only the weak fell for and used to justify poor life behavior. People who claimed to be depressed actually just needed to step it up and decide to get better. Depression was simply a label slapped on people who lacked drive, focus, discipline and self-control.

Then suddenly, I found myself in a thick, all consuming cloud of darkness. A darkness I didn’t expect, didn’t understand, and for the life of me could not overcome. I couldn’t even fight it. It was the most overwhelming feeling of helplessness I have ever experienced. I wanted to fix it. I wanted to make it go away. I wanted to change my mind and overcome it. At the very least I wanted to understand what this huge darkness was that had consumed me. What was this paralyzing force fighting against me? This was depression.

My misconception and prejudice against mental illness was boiling up and staring me straight in the face. I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. All at once the shame of my years spent in superiority hit me. Depression was real. As real as the new baby I held in my arms as I pondered my newfound suffering. It had always been real, and I hadn’t been willing to see that.

The prejudice I carried against depression amplified my suffering. I was not only in the thick of the illness, I felt worthless for having it. After all, this was an issue saved for the weak. I made a vow to myself to never tell anyone how I felt. No matter how bad things got, I promised to never let anyone know I was broken. I was better than this, I had to be.

Eventually I came to understand depression had nothing to do with me, or with anyone else it haunted. My judgment turned to understanding, my prejudice softened into empathy, and my superiority changed to respect. Now, in the purest humility I have ever experienced, I apologize. I apologize for rolling my eyes, for telling you to try harder, and for all the times I silently judged you for struggling. I’m sorry for thinking of myself as better than you. I am so sorry for not trusting you enough to believe your struggle. I am sorry for not caring enough to reach out. I am sorry for my ignorance.

xoxo Julie

*I share my story to try to help others understand the reality of mental illness. It is too often ignored, downplayed, and misunderstood. The face of depression is misrepresented. I am the face of depression. Without a doubt someone you know personally is the face of depression. Fostering beliefs that mental illness is not real inhibits progress in saving the lives of those who suffer.