A couple of weeks ago, I finally got around to telling my mum about what has been happening to me in the past few months. In turn dad finally found out too when she told him.
I hadn’t told my parents about my depression, crash and diagnosis, nor the fact that I’m on medications. I’d told my brothers, who’ve been really supportive, but I begged them to not tell our parents for a number of reasons.
The main reason is that my mum is an anxious person herself and suffers terribly from insomnia. She worries about the smallest things and tends to blow issues out of proportion. She imagines harsh tones when talking to someone and feels slighted easily — even when there was no tone change or deliberate slighting.
I get a lot of that from her. Or used to. Maybe I still do to some point, but not as much as I once did. Every now and then I get sad or angry, but usually find that’s just miscommunication and misunderstanding. If only we all communicated effectively!
Anyway, I digress. Both my mum and I are very sensitive. And we can be painfully shy and hate the spotlight on us in a room full of people, let’s say. But that’s normal-ish for many people, I guess. The trouble starts when we feel anxious about our shyness hindering us, or our introvert natures can’t get us somewhere. And the more anxious we feel, the more introverted, shy and/or sensitive we become. Then that in turn builds up low self-esteem issues. Why oh why can’t we be popular, confident and talk to anyone in the room?!
As for dad, I’ve often suspected he may have some depression issues. Certainly there is a reliance on alcohol, for that runs in the family (late grandfather was an alcoholic — which got worse after the war — as was dad’s brother). I’ve talked about alcohol elsewhere on this blog, no point going over it. But looking back and looking at him now, I can see how his depression is fueled by his heavy drinking. However, I sometimes wonder if he would be predisposed to depression even if he wasn’t a drinker. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect he probably could be. Mum certainly believes so.
So, I was concerned about telling them right from the start. I didn’t want mum to be awake at night worrying about me, her anxiety being as it is. Dad would have been OK, but it wouldn’t have been fair to tell him and not mum.
Then on a selfish level, I didn’t want to be worrying about mum being worried when I was trying to get my shit together. It was the last thing I needed and I had to eliminate as much stress as I could. Secondly, mum being mum, she would have just pissed me off much too easily anytime she did what mother’s are supposed to do: nag. She’s not a terrible nag but in mypoversensitive and highly strung period, I would have construed everything as nagging and I would have gotten really irate with her. That wouldn’t have been fair on her. But also, quite frankly, I couldn’t be fucked dealing with her sensitivities at that time. It was — had to be — purely about me.
Well, when I informed mum that I had had enough of my job and just had to leave, I realised I had to tell her about my depression. I was getting to the stage at my job where I could feel myself sliding back to moroseness, apathy and negativity. So it came out in a jumble, unplanned and waiting for her to … I don’t know, cry? No, she wouldn’t cry but say something with panic in her voice, maybe?
She surprised me, I have to say. She sounded cool and calm and I got the feeling that she already knew I had issues! No one’s told her, but she didn’t sound surprised or anxious or upset or anything. Thinking about it though, she’s my mother and it’s always with her that I haven’t tried to keep my irritability or sadness hidden in the past couple of years. And when she’d ask what was wrong… well, she’s asking! She obviously knew something was wrong. I denied anything was wrong, of course. Hell, most of the time I didn’t know what was wrong myself.
With some trepidation I suggested to mum that I probably get some of my anxiety and/or depression from her. I thought she might react indignantly. After all, she can be very negative at times, just like me.
Again, she surprised me. She didn’t react, just went “Hmm”, as if thinking it over. No outright denials, at any rate.
Since then, we haven’t spoken at length about any of this, mainly because all I’m talking about is my preparations for moving interstate and then Mr Bean getting sick. Still, it doesn’t bother me if we don’t talk about it. I talk about it all the time here! As much as I love my mum and am close to her, there are just some things, like my depression, counselling and medications, that I am not fully comfortable talking about with her (or dad). I find it easier to talk to my friends about it, for some reason. I really don’t know why this is so.
Still, it’s nice that she and dad know now. They can understand why I have to make some changes in my life and why I am determined to do so. They know it’s not just for purely selfish reasons, but for my mental health and happiness.
Best of all is, my parents do understand.
Struggling to stay awake for a photo
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