The D word.

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Let’s talk about the D word.

I don’t want to.

I’d rather talk about the time my sick toddler threw up in my mouth and at the same time that happened my sick infant crapped all over me.
I want to tell how that all three of us fully clothed covered in shit and bile cried in the shower
until my husband got home.

I’d rather talk about how the women in my life have inspired me through their blood, sweat, and tears and through their sacrifice have emerged this beautifully dysfunctional person who you see today.

No.

I have to talk about the D word.
The D word is much more debilitating than most know
It’s a silent killer choking you every day

Their was a time that for days my mother would stay in a dark room talking to nothing.
Not eating
Not wanting to shower.
Not even recognizing me as her daughter.

Fast forward to my own child.
Their was a time that I had to carry my own “physically” healthy daughter to and from the shower and dress her as if she were paralyzed from the neck down.
I felt that I did everything I could
and nothing seemed to help.

It’s not just depression is it?

Not a day goes by that I do not hate myself for my genetics.

Don’t worry they say.
She’ll grow out of it they say.

“She’s a teenager”.
“She’s a girl.”
But I know better. Our situation is different.

We gotta talk about the D word.
To the people who are supposed to listen I felt like I was screaming on deaf ears.
…And then it happened…
I got a phone call saying that my daughter was in the hospital.
Suicide attempt one.
(I say the number one because there has been many more since that first time)
With every phone call, with every moment that the house becomes silent my heart stops.
Life kinda stops.

You’re alive but time doesn’t run the way its supposed to.
As the parent you divide yourself.
You divide yourself into categories.
mom. wife. doctor. happy. sad. present.

Your brain is eating itself.

Thinking and Thinking and Thinking.

And coffee no longer does anything.
You eventually set yourself to management mode

I don’t want to talk about the D word.
I just want to talk about the time I accidentally flashed my vagina over a morning cup of coffee with a friend.

But I can’t. All I can think about is death and dying. And Depression. Appointments and medication. Genetics and judgment. And it’s not even my depression. I have my own demons. This time this D word isn’t mine.

I’m angry. I’m angry at myself, I’m angry at mother, I’m angry at you, my daughter.
because the D word is all I can think about it consumes my mind. My 7am alarms goes off. Give medication. 6pm give night time meds. 9pm check/lock all doors. 3am check to make sure she’s in bed. I’m angry at you, my daughter because the house is peaceful when you are gone but my heart aches for you when you’re not home.

The D word.
Depression and more.
I can’t fix it.
I don’t know how except to concede that what I know-I know
and talk about it. The D word.

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