It's no secret among my family and friends that I've struggled with depression most of my life.
When, in my 20s, I could find no comfort, my dear friend Ginny told me, "Paula, when you break a leg or an arm, people can see the cast and sympathize. But when your heart or mind is broken, they can't see it, and are unable to understand." I never forgot the wisdom of her words.
I was diagnosed with "major clinical depression" at age 19, but it started long before then.
My very first memory of crying due to depression was when I was only 5 years old. It was Christmas night, my aunt and cousins had left for home, and all the joy of the season also left my heart. My father came into my room and said quite harshly, "Why are you crying??" I did not understand my own feelings, so I told him how sad I felt that Christmas was over. He snapped at me, "Well, STOP it or I'll really give you something to cry about." I was confused and terribly frightened, but it did not make me stop crying. I just learned to do it quietly, face smashed into a pillow or some place where they couldn't see or hear me.
Italian families tend to view crying as "weakness." Then I stumbled upon this quote by Johnny Depp, and realized how right he is. Afraid to anger my family, or be the victim of their mockery, I tried to be "strong" and deal with it by myself. But, by the time I was 19 years old, I knew that if I did not seek professional help, I was going to be in big trouble...another sad statistic.
I clearly remember, in 1969, standing on West 57th Street in NYC on a frigid winter day, waiting for the bus that would take me to my first appointment with a psychiatrist, and violently shaking all over...not just from the cold, but also because I was filled with fear about what I was going to do. Upon my arrival, a very kind woman interviewed me, and asked why I was there. When I tried to explain my family background, I could not get a word out ~ just deep, heaving sobs that would not stop for over a half hour. The woman said, "That's okay, you don't have to explain anything right now, just get all that pain out."
Later on that year, somehow my father found out that I was seeing a psychiatrist and snarled at me, "You're going to wind up just like Rico." My mother's brother, my much-loved Uncle Rico, had returned from World War II a shattered soul. When he could no longer take the flashbacks and horrific memories, he committed suicide in 1964. Five years later, and I was given the same death sentence by my own father because he could not tolerate the "shame" of having his child require psychiatric care. Not long after that, he told me to leave home,that he did not want me there any longer.
And so I did, and my first roommate was the aforementioned friend, Ginny. When I visited my parents, my father looked through me, as though I were a plate of glass. He was furious that I had moved out and, again, "shamed" him in what was then an Italian-American neighborhood where "good" girls did not leave home unless they were in a bridal gown. Didn't matter that he told me to leave, even if it was a bluff. I called him on his bluff, and did not deserve to be acknowledged.
The very worst thing anyone can tell a person suffering from depression is "SNAP OUT OF IT!" And that is all I ever heard from my mother...as though I could just snap my fingers and my heart (and mind) would be healed.
I'm sorry to say that it just doesn't work that way. A kind word, a hug, some sort of understanding does so much more than the dismissive "snap out of it" which reduces one's suffering to almost nothing.
So, from age 5 to my present age, 67, I continue to seek help, but not all the professional help and new medications in the world can erase the agony of a broken heart because of a terrifying childhood.
And, once again, I remember Vincent Van Gogh...
