My friend and fellow writer, V-Grrrl, wrote a compelling post about her dealings with depression and the healing and supportive effects of social media. I invite you to read her story. 

In response, I penned the comments below:

I first wanted to die at age 7. Prayed every night that I’d not awaken in the morning. For the longest time, I blamed my inner turmoil on a wildly tumultuous family life laden with violence and abuse and tears.

Through my thirties, the “dark debilitator” and I never parted company. I read scores of self-help books, ate right, got plenty of sleep, avoided alcohol, sought counseling, never toyed with drugs and practiced every holistic recommendation.

Still, He dogged me.

Despite the fact that, once an adult, I enjoyed every blessing and achieved every goal, I fell into the abyss on a regular basis. Climbing out was a monumental feat that nearly broke me time and again.

When the first of two of my children became chronically ill, I finally told the doctor the dirty details of my thirty-year battle with the beast. Her response? “This is a biological illness. All you’ve done has helped, but only medication will set your chemistry right.”

Enter the vanquisher- a prescription antidepressant. Over the last ten years I weaned myself off of it several times, thinking I could manage on my own. Finally, I accept it as my saving grace. On it, I AM me. Without it, He wins. Fuck that.

If it ever stops working, I’ll get myself to the doctor and find a new weapon. I love being me. I’ll never again willingly give up myself.

If you think you might suffer with depression, make an appointment with your doctor. Seek help. Feel better.

* "Black Dog" is a colloquial term for depression.

I AM in the minority and I know it. I like Mondays.

Every Monday marks the beginning of a new week when everything seems possible. I reflect on the gifts and good times I’ve just enjoyed, find peace and purpose in the new day, firm up plans for the upcoming week and anticipate the blessings that I know will be mine. But as a child, I absolutely relished Mondays. 

Monday marked the beginning of the school week and I loved school. Monday plopped me into my element; and for the next five days I could learn and read and play, and do my best to please the adults around me and hide my truths from the neighborhood kids. Mondays marked the first day of safety, freedom and relief. Back then, beginning Friday afternoon at three, I kept my inner eye on Monday as the weekend loomed ahead.

While, for most kids, weekends meant parties and movies and happy, family fun, for my siblings and me, that was only an occasional truth. For us, Friday night through Sunday, 7 p.m. was a time to be endured. During those hours my dad, plagued by psychic dragons never slain, tormented his family. A mean alcoholic, he’d start drinking during the drive home from work and wouldn’t stop until he passed out at day’s end. During the week, he got up and went to work in the morning, and the rest of us went about our days with cautious, contained calm. We laughed and played and fulfilled our responsibilities in relative contentedness.

On weekends, our world changed. Friday evenings were tolerable because Dad was celebrating the end of the work week and his attitude was fairly upbeat. Bad things did not usually happen on Friday. But as the weekend rolled on, the firestorm would brew, and it grew.

So long as we were quiet, Saturday mornings were sometimes safe since Dad, nursing a hangover, retreated to his shop or CB radio desk, and kept his distance from four kids and all that they meant. Often, he was still feeling the previous night’s buzz when he drank his morning coffee. Two cups down, he’d switch to Coor’s talls with salt on the rim. (When the Teamster’s banned Coor’s he switched to Bud; and I wonder if he, a rabid homophobic, ever understood that he joined the increasingly influential gay community in “showing those non-union bastards.” Ya gotta smile.)

Come noon, the looming tension felt like a physical threat. By three, name-calling began. If we were lucky, he took a nap in the late afternoon and we got a time out. If not, the day was really long. At five, criticism and demands regarding dinner ensued. By seven we were “stupid, lazy, sons-o’-bitches,” “fat-assed good-for-nothings,” or some equally inadequate sort. As the sun went down, his fiery malevolence rose, fueling an illogical anger that propelled hatred, fists and leather belts.

Sundays, I tried to escape because they were scary and depression enrobed me. This “Sunday Sadness” remained my norm for decades before I figured it out and let it go. Because control was my dad’s favorite tool, getting away was never easy. “No,” was his favorite word. So I chose to go to my grandparents, go to church, study, do a school project or read. Anything to prevent our paths from crossing. Often I heard his ranting, but avoided the inevitable physical end. 

Sunday nights were often blessed because by then he just passed out. We’d nurse our wounds, spiritual, emotional and physical, while we watched “The Wonderful World of Disney”   in relative peace and look forward to the next five days. And then Monday came. As a child, I absolutely relished Mondays.

Search for  LIGHT ~ shine brightly,

A beacon toward release.

There it is! Go forward!

Decrease, decease, find peace.

~

Move on in to join it,

Follow to the gate.

Denied!?

This must go on?!

Wait!

~

Upon return, again…

Pain, punch,

Humiliation

Rush

And pummel down.

~

The breath

Becomes the struggle.

Broken body.

Broken crown.

~

Finally then, it’s over.

Every cell, gene, chromosome

Release, re-live, re-love.

To Home!

A spirit quashed before could hone

An intellect mocked and bemoaned

But in the world, seemed fine.

~

Injured, broken, damaged, scared

I let few know, I rarely dared

What consequence, when tempers flared

Hurt, pain, no obvious sign.

~

I lost myself before I grew

Then sought to find that self in you

Safety, peace, my soul renew

A chance, who knew? was mine.

~

Into your shelter I would steal

Your faith my inner self revealed

I learned love, kind and gentle, real

My light, you lit. I shined.

~

Into the world I then could go

My growing sense of self aglow

With confidence and certainty know

I was, I AM, divine.

You know,

The original shrink-to-fit?

Big Frye boots.

Little man syndrome.

Big voice.

Little confidence.

Big mouth.

Little mind.

Heart?

Buried in fear and sorrow and pain.

Pain…

Stitches from a bar brawl.

Broken hand busting son.

Sore shoulder from swinging

The Belt.

“Thwack!” — “Thwack!” — “Thwack!”

It slaps through the loops

of the 501′s

every night

when he’s had way too much to drink

and comes storming…staggering… down the hall

because you and your sister are talking.

I cry before he gets there, knowing what will be.

Que sera, sera.

Whatever will be will be.

Did your dad wear 501′s?

I understand.