"What reason could you possibly have to be depressed?" I heard the words over the phone line, and I visibly winced. His reaction was the exact reason I hadn't told anybody until that moment that I'd been experiencing symptoms of depression. I quickly changed the subject. He wasn't ready. And neither was I. The man on the other end of the line was a close friend of mine. It was the first and last time I would broach the subject with anyone. Until now.
As a boy, I'd dutifully memorized vocabulary words such as "depression." And I'd imagine a man glumly pressing his face against prison bars, estranged from love and any hope of human connection. As a child in school, I learned definitions. But what I did not learn was the application of those definitions beyond what was written on the page. Depressed people did not have wives. They did not have successful careers and rewarding hobbies. And they most certainly did not have children. Or so I thought. As an adult, I realized that depression wasn't exclusive to the loveless, glum faces behind prison bars. People with loving families, millionaires with houses on each continent, nobody was immune to the all-consuming soul-suck known as depression. Having my own children taught me this, but I never could have imagined that it would simultaneously hold me back and push me forward.
In mid-2012, despite having two healthy, thriving sons and a loving wife, I still suffered in silence. I had no "reason to be depressed," but I still had my dark days, despite the joy my family brought me. And I harbored guilt for feeling that way, considering all the blessings in my life. Then, that reason finally happened, and I faced a situation that would not only challenge me as a parent, but as a man. When my children were just starting to get to know my mother, she died suddenly of a massive heart attack. I was very close with her, and I was the one who discovered her body. And as the days of mourning stood ominously before me like thick redwood trees, I began to fear I'd never recover. But shortly thereafter, it became apparent that the juxtaposition of my mother's untimely death with the demands of parenthood would make me stronger than I ever could have imagined.
The immediate days and weeks following my mother's death were filled with anger, anxiety, sadness, resentment, and the unwanted knowledge that my life would never be the same as it was. But I wasn't afforded the luxury of crawling into a hole and covering my head. I had children to raise who weren't old enough to realize I was going through a personal hell. The ongoing responsibilities of raising my two sons with my wife, along with the demands of my career, prevented me from mourning my mother the way I likely would've chosen to -- sitting in dark rooms every day, drinking myself into a stupor, while wallowing in self-pity for God knows how long. Framed that way, I suppose I should thank my children. They unknowingly pushed me forward when the current was pulling me mercilessly in the other direction.
Trying to be a present, effective parent while carrying the weight of depression is like the dream you have when you're trying to run but your legs won't move. Like treading water while holding barbells (or babies) over your head. It seems like an impossible feat while you're trying to do it. But in the end, you'll end up stronger in every way imaginable because of it. And you're not the only one it benefits.
A few months later, on a random Thursday night, my older son was misbehaving badly. He refused to brush his teeth and/or put on his pajamas. I raised my voice, he raised his. You know the drill. And suddenly, in a moment that surprised even me, I lost it. My eyes welled up with tears, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Voice noticeably cracking, I said, "Honey, I need you to do this for me. Please. Just do it." And I left the room. Within a couple of minutes, he did the things I asked him to do, and even wrote me a note on the back of an old birthday card.
"Daddy, I'm sorry. I love you," was scribbled on the page. He followed it up with a hug. As furious as I was just a few minutes earlier, I couldn't have been prouder to witness the first tangible example of my son's ability to show this incredibly important personality trait- empathy. Later that night, while I was putting him to bed, he asked questions about his grandmother. He clearly didn't understand the finality of death, but he'd established a strong enough sense of empathy, even at the age of four, to comfort his grieving father, if only for a moment. It remains a lone bright spot in an otherwise deeply sad situation.
I'd like to be clear that this piece of writing is not intended to evoke sympathy for me. And I'm well aware of how fortunate I am. A beautiful, loving wife and three remarkable children are gifts that not everyone is blessed enough to receive. But more than anything, I wrote this to open some eyes to the idea that the frazzled, out-of-his-wits person you scoff at in the grocery store, or in a crowded restaurant with his unruly children, may be undergoing a challenge you know nothing about. I try to remember that any time I even think of judging another human being.
There have been days when I've left my wife with the kids while I locked myself in the bathroom with tears streaming down my face, nights when my kids will want to play horsey and the weight of my own legs feels insurmountable. But without my family, and without the constant hands (quite literally) pulling me forward, I believe I'd be much worse off than I currently am. Parenthood has been my greatest obstacle. It's also saved me in my darkest of moments. That's the ultimate gift of having children. And it's a gift I'm thankful for every single day of the year.
This post is dedicated to the memory of a young New Jersey boy who tragically lost his life in an accident five short weeks ago, Christopher D'Amico, Jr. To honor his memory, a Facebook page has been opened named "Kindness for Christopher," which encourages people to perform random acts of kindness for others. I urge anyone reading to "like" the page and follow their beautiful example.
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Need help? In the U.S., call 1-800-273-8255 for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.