My older brother was diagnosed with depression and bipolar disorder during his teenage years. Back in the early ’90s, there was virtually no information regarding depression in adolescents. My father dismissed his struggles, believing they were fabricated for attention, and refused to seek any treatment or medication. Thankfully, my mother stepped in to support him. They were divorced, and she was able to get him on an antidepressant—something my father would not allow during their marriage.
I also have two younger brothers, both of whom faced their own battles during their teenage years and began taking antidepressants in their twenties. The youngest tried to cope independently, but after his child was born, he spent several days isolated in his room. He couldn’t communicate with anyone, couldn’t care for his newborn, and described his feelings as being submerged underwater.
It was only after this that my grandmother finally revealed how many of her family members were on antidepressants (though she wasn’t). She hinted that mental health issues might run in our family—an obvious realization, really. Now, even my father takes medication and has transformed into a different person, though it took a great deal of persuasion from his siblings for him to seek help in his 60s.
As for me, I’ve often felt guilty for not experiencing the same struggles as my siblings. I questioned why I was different and found it difficult to empathize with their experiences. When my brother canceled plans because he couldn’t get out of bed, I felt anger. During family gatherings, I couldn’t understand why they struggled to socialize. Their conversations about taking breaks from work or needing time away from their kids due to mental health issues led me to think, “Just toughen up!”
Part of this perspective was likely influenced by my father, who believed that depression was merely an excuse for laziness. But more than that, I simply couldn’t relate; I had no understanding of the feeling of being unable to rise from bed, get dressed, or speak.
And then I turned 40.
My experience with depression began with a constant, albeit undefined, sense of panic. I confided in my then-partner one day before he left for work, saying, “I feel like something is wrong, but I can’t pinpoint it.” He looked at me blankly, assured me it would be alright, and left. Never tell someone battling depression that everything will be fine and then walk away—this only adds to their feelings of invalidation.
That was six years ago, and since then, my condition has worsened. My anxiety and depression feel like a simmering flame, always present, even in moments of happiness. Yet, during flare-ups, I am left utterly drained, unable to think, lacking energy, and often staring blankly at the ceiling for hours. It’s as if my anxiety leaves me in a numb state before I can return to reality.
This struggle has transformed me in ways I never anticipated. It impacts me physically, and during those weeks when I can’t lift my head from the pillow, I often reflect on my brother’s experiences. A few weeks ago, when my children were with their father, I felt their absence deeply. I spent the day in and out of sleep, retiring to bed by 7:30 p.m. I wasn’t sad or hungry; I had no interest in anything.
I didn’t want to talk to anyone, nor could I respond to texts. My body felt an unprecedented heaviness, and in that moment, I thought, This is what my brother was talking about. How could I have been so oblivious? This is what I deserve for not being more empathetic.
It was then that I realized it was time to reach out to my doctor for help. I had always believed I was immune to depression, as I was the only one in my family not on medication, and for a long time, I hadn’t faced significant issues with it. While I experienced “baby blues” and postpartum anxiety after all my children were born, those feelings passed. I thought I would never be affected by depression.
Yet, here I was in my 40s, grappling with these feelings as my children grew up, before entering perimenopause, before my marriage ended, completely unprepared for what was happening.
Facing this reality is challenging—going from a life filled with joy, sociability, and contentment to becoming someone overwhelmed by anxiety and depression is a difficult transition. But this is my reality now.
It’s essential to accept myself, taking each day as it comes, and focusing on what I need rather than comparing the new me to the old. I refuse to tell myself—or anyone else experiencing this—that everything will be fine and then leave them to cope alone. Tough love does not cure depression.
Seeking help has made this journey bearable, so if you find yourself in a similar situation, don’t just wait and hope it will pass as I did.
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In summary, my journey with depression began in my 40s, revealing the struggles my family had faced for years. It took me time to recognize my condition and seek help, but I learned the importance of self-acceptance and understanding that I am not alone in this battle. By prioritizing my mental health and reaching out for support, I hope to inspire others facing similar challenges.
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