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celeste_noelani(I am cross-posting this from http://www.runningnekkid.com/ because this is so important to me that I just have to share it everywhere I can.)
"What do you mean when you say that?" Jonas asked. I didn't want to tell him the entire story. There was too much to tell, each answer brining with it two, five, a thousand questions.
But still, I had started it and of course he was going to ask, and so I had to say something. But what do you say to the child who saved you from yourself, who made all of the pain and all of your past worth bearing?
Earlier I'd said to him, "You saved my life." And he had. All two pounds, three ounces of him. All twelve and three-quarters inches. It wasn't the first time I'd said those words to him, of course, and it wasn't the first time he'd asked me what I meant. But somehow all of those "I'll tell you when you're older" deflections seemed suddenly a part of the past. He looked at me expectantly, hesitantly, and he was older. Not old enough for the entire truth, of course, but at least old enough for the overview.
And so I told him.
I told him that before he was born, I was a lifetime of bad choices. That I used to get so sad I couldn't get out of bed. Couldn't work or talk to anyone or stop crying. I told him about being so lost in confusion and in sadness that I couldn't get out of bed. Couldn't work or talk to anyone or stop crying. And then I told him a little bit about being scared of recklessly hurting myself.
"Like getting in a car wreck?" he asked, partly because that kind of recklessness that makes sense, and partly because he was a eleven year-old boy whose big existentialist crisis was wrapped up in the question Lamborghini or Bugatti.
"Sure," I answered, "like getting in a car wreck." Because, let's face it, I've thought about that car wreck. That very un-accidental accident.
But then I told him that after his was born, I wasn't scared like I had been before. I wasn't as reckless. Well, maybe I was for a little while but then I put everything I had into protecting him. And part of protecting him was protecting myself.
Was battling the depths of my suicidal fantasies.
I didn't tell him then about the impulses that I've fought, the menacing temptation to orchestrate my own demise. I don't think that he's ready for all of my everything. But I did begin one part of the conversation that I hope we will continue to have year after year, well after his children are the age he is now. I'll dole out age appropriate information like I've done his whole life, talking about things like sex and relationships and education and personal hygiene. You know, just another one of Mom's little public service announcements. *sigh*
Eventually, I'll tell him as much about my depression as he cares to know. I'll keep talking to him about it because he might need to understand. One of these days, he might have a friend, or a lover, or a child battling the same kind of lying, thieving bastard that I have battled for as long as I remember. He might have his own war to wage against this life threatening mental illness. Or none of these things might happen and he will have to rely on our discussions to cultivate empathy and fight prejudice; abandon stigma. But whatever the case, I will keep talking to my son about the ways that he saved me, and the ways that I keep fighting.
Because I will keep fighting. I keep fighting because I have to, of course. I am in treatment for my depression, not cured of it. Some days are harder than others, and some days are even harder than that. But none of them, not a single one of them, are as bleak or dangerous or frightening as those awful faraway days before I understood my illness as an illness. And, of course, before I had the most beautiful boy in the world showing me that yes, this life of mine was worth living after all.
It's Suicide Prevention Week. If you or someone you know is struggling with depression, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255). Let them help save your life or the life of someone you love.
"What do you mean when you say that?" Jonas asked. I didn't want to tell him the entire story. There was too much to tell, each answer brining with it two, five, a thousand questions.
But still, I had started it and of course he was going to ask, and so I had to say something. But what do you say to the child who saved you from yourself, who made all of the pain and all of your past worth bearing?
Earlier I'd said to him, "You saved my life." And he had. All two pounds, three ounces of him. All twelve and three-quarters inches. It wasn't the first time I'd said those words to him, of course, and it wasn't the first time he'd asked me what I meant. But somehow all of those "I'll tell you when you're older" deflections seemed suddenly a part of the past. He looked at me expectantly, hesitantly, and he was older. Not old enough for the entire truth, of course, but at least old enough for the overview.
And so I told him.
I told him that before he was born, I was a lifetime of bad choices. That I used to get so sad I couldn't get out of bed. Couldn't work or talk to anyone or stop crying. I told him about being so lost in confusion and in sadness that I couldn't get out of bed. Couldn't work or talk to anyone or stop crying. And then I told him a little bit about being scared of recklessly hurting myself.
"Like getting in a car wreck?" he asked, partly because that kind of recklessness that makes sense, and partly because he was a eleven year-old boy whose big existentialist crisis was wrapped up in the question Lamborghini or Bugatti.
"Sure," I answered, "like getting in a car wreck." Because, let's face it, I've thought about that car wreck. That very un-accidental accident.
But then I told him that after his was born, I wasn't scared like I had been before. I wasn't as reckless. Well, maybe I was for a little while but then I put everything I had into protecting him. And part of protecting him was protecting myself.
Was battling the depths of my suicidal fantasies.
I didn't tell him then about the impulses that I've fought, the menacing temptation to orchestrate my own demise. I don't think that he's ready for all of my everything. But I did begin one part of the conversation that I hope we will continue to have year after year, well after his children are the age he is now. I'll dole out age appropriate information like I've done his whole life, talking about things like sex and relationships and education and personal hygiene. You know, just another one of Mom's little public service announcements. *sigh*
Eventually, I'll tell him as much about my depression as he cares to know. I'll keep talking to him about it because he might need to understand. One of these days, he might have a friend, or a lover, or a child battling the same kind of lying, thieving bastard that I have battled for as long as I remember. He might have his own war to wage against this life threatening mental illness. Or none of these things might happen and he will have to rely on our discussions to cultivate empathy and fight prejudice; abandon stigma. But whatever the case, I will keep talking to my son about the ways that he saved me, and the ways that I keep fighting.
Because I will keep fighting. I keep fighting because I have to, of course. I am in treatment for my depression, not cured of it. Some days are harder than others, and some days are even harder than that. But none of them, not a single one of them, are as bleak or dangerous or frightening as those awful faraway days before I understood my illness as an illness. And, of course, before I had the most beautiful boy in the world showing me that yes, this life of mine was worth living after all.
It's Suicide Prevention Week. If you or someone you know is struggling with depression, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255). Let them help save your life or the life of someone you love.
