Depression Doesn't Look Like Crying All The Time, But Sometimes It Does

For this post, allow me to get a bit vulnerable. I have depression. It does not have me. Years ago, I kicked its mind numbing ass and vowed to do what I could to keep it locked in its box where it belongs. I suffered from major depression from 1994 to 1996. I did counseling, and medication, and with my faith, I got through it. I'm still here. I can say my faith was a big part of getting through it. When I was a kid, I thought me and God were tight. I asked for the rain to stop so I could go out and play, and wouldn't you know the rain would stop. As I got older, I realized that I didn't have God on speed dial and in fact, if he was taking my calls at all, he wasn't calling me back. It was a retreat called the Walk to Emmaus that brought me back. So while I had a strong faith, good meds, and a good counselor, I still took a little while to come out of my depression. It still likes to rear it's ugly head once in a while and remind me that it never really goes away. Currently, I take a lot of vitamins including a good B complex and a high dose of D. What's good for me, though, isn't necessarily what my daughter needs.

My daughter is 21. She's been suffering her depression since about 14. It got really bad in high school and our wonderful school system did nothing if not make it worse. Her depression has robbed her creativity, killed her motivation and desire, destroyed her joy, and has hidden anything she might like to do from her mind. Through all of that she had developed a fanatical devotion to Michael Jackson. He is the only one keeping her alive, according to her. If someone came up to her and told her they could send her back in time to 1980, she would go in a heartbeat. As she tells it, there is nothing here to keep her here. Without outlining that any further, let me just say, that when she falls into her funks, collapses in a meltdown, or feels completely hopeless, she listens to Micheal Jackson to get through it.

This post comes out of a recent such meltdown. There was, just this last weekend, a small film festival in Utah playing a documentary accusing Michael Jackson of molesting children. My daughter was incensed. She began with wanting to commit acts that would prevent the theater from showing the film. I told her I wouldn't be party to violence, and neither would Michael Jackson. Her depression reared its head as rage. I talked her down, and she agreed to protest peacefully. This all took place over a month, and by the time she decided she'd protest and wanted a ride out there, it was happened the next weekend. Suffice it to say, I hadn't taken the time off. Now her rage turned to despair and she wouldn't get out of bed, wouldn't eat, would barely speak.

I will do anything for my children. I will fly to the moon and back. I have to try everything before giving up.

I can't give up. So I asked for the time off. Yes it was short notice. But a meltdown born out of depression is different than a temper tantrum, and I needed to make this happen. My job has been very flexible with me, but this time, my scheduling manager made me feel like I was shirking my responsibilities to work, that I was calling this too close, and if my daughter was going to kill herself, she'd do it whether I was there or not. Those were her words, not mine. I was furious, took my daughter to her counselor, and then called in to work to take the next week off. She was not happy. I'm sorry, but family is more important than work, and fuck her.

I drove to Utah from Minnesota, and damn it if my own depression started to rear up. "Don't have fun," it said. "If this looks like a vacation, you could get fired," it said. "You told them you were going on a road trip, but you didn't tell them where. If they only knew," it said. I told it to take a flying leap. I brought my camera. My daughter took pictures. My son ended up coming with and he took pictures. I had fun, and I had guilt, and I felt terrible on my return. But if you're still reading, let me get to the point of this.

Yes, my daughter perked up when I told her I could take her. Her counselor said he liked the idea of a road trip. So, I called in to work, and we left. The drive took almost twenty hours, including the stops for gas and the hotels. I made my daughter pay for the trip. If this was more than me giving in to her threats to end her life, then she could take some responsibility for it. She seemed almost happy while we were driving. She made faces at dinner and we had good conversation. Even her brother was good company.

When we finally made it to Salt Lake City, she curled up and cried herself to sleep. So this wasn't me giving in to her demands. This was me trying to help my daughter through a funk.

I know that depression doesn't mean you're crying all the time. But sometimes you are. She said she's always in a funk, just sometimes it's deeper than other times. I understand this. Having come through it myself, I know she can too. I just don't know how. So, we went to the protest and met a few others who held the same belief. We stayed another night, and she stayed close to me, crying again.

Saturday, we went to the Great Salt Lake, and she seemed to enjoy exploring. And then we went to the second showing of this documentary. She stood outside and seemed to have made some new friends. More people engaged with them, arguing that maybe Michael Jackson was guilty. Her rage began to show again. Once it dissipated, she wanted to leave. it was a good time to go. We said good bye to our new friends and hit the road for home.

We did talk about her depression, her funks, and how she can let me know right away, starting without violence, but simply ask me for help. We'll see. But since being home, we really aren't much better. There always seems to be something to trigger her. And then there's Michael Jackson. She won't get back to 1980 and that triggers her too. I really wish I knew better how to help her. Even the mountains got just a "Meh" response.

So, that's it. Sometimes depression is crying all the time. But most of the time, it doesn't. You can even laugh with depression. Oh, and I still have my job. So, here are a few more picures from the trip, taken either by me, my daughter, or my son. Hope you like them.



This is a journey, and I will continue to support, fight for, and pray for my daughter, because depression doesn't look like crying all the time. But sometimes it does. If you or someone you know needs help, a good counselor is a good place to start. If you or they are already to the point of despair, and I know that feeling, please call for help. Here is the number for the Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255 and know this, even though I may not know who you are, you matter to me. That's at least one person who will miss you if you don't call and go through with what the lie of despair is prompting you to do.