I was fifteen when my father died from cancer (angio sarcoma) in August of 1981. He had only been diagnosed in February, so the battle was brief, but it was still devastating to our whole family. Mom and I had only just gotten him back after a brief divorce, and we only had about a year as a reunited happy family before the cancer came. Watching my strong, athletic, outdoorsman father waste away was horrific for me. I couldn't stand it, and spent a lot of time locked away in my bedroom, or, if we were at the hospital, in one of the two waiting rooms, or just wandering around the streets of Spokane. I hated seeing him sick, in pain. I hated watching his body fail him and later become irreparably damaged by the chemotherapy treatments. I hated when the cancer made his bones weak, and he broke his right arm and right leg at the same time, doing nothing more strenuous than getting out of bed. I hated that he had to go through surgery for those breaks when he was already sick and in pain. I hated pretty much everything about that time.
But, I said nothing. My parents had enough to deal with; I didn't want to add to their suffering by whining or being a brat. So, I kept to myself to be morose and sad and angry as I wanted, and was cheerful and loving when I was around them.
After my father died, I tried to be strong and optimistic, and just go on with my life. I stayed out of trouble as much as possible to make my mom's life easier. She had enough to deal with being a single mom again, having legal crap to deal with because the will was incomplete, and having banking crap to deal with, etc., etc. She didn't need to deal with me being a druggie or getting pregnant. But, the whole time I was tired - really tired. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. I didn't see my exhaustion as a sign of depression, but apparently, it was, and still is a symptom of the disease.
One day at school, when I was seventeen, I wrote a note to my best friend Lainey, saying how tired I was, and how I wished I could just go to sleep forever. I don't remember if I was really thinking about suicide at that time - though I had thought about it before, and have though about it ever since - but she thought I was, and took the note to my mom, who was the high school librarian. My mom spoke to the counselor, the wonderful and totally awesome Mr. Hazen, and when I was called out of class to meet with him, and was confronted with the letter, everything spilled out: all my pain and anger, the years of silence; I wept for only the second time since my father's death. I confessed how miserable I was, and how it all just made me to damn tired.
Mr. Hazen recommended a psychologist in Pullman, and I saw her for several months to deal with my depression. It worked, to a point. That's the thing about therapy (at least out-patient therapy): you can quit anytime you want. After a few months I didn't have anything more to talk about - not anything I wanted to talk about with my therapist, anyway - so she and I agreed I didn't need to come anymore. I was still a little depressed, but I could control it now, and there were times when I really did feel a lot better.
I've continued to be depressed to a certain extent ever since. It got bad again in mid-1994 when I miscarried my baby, and the following year when I was abandoned by my fiancé, but I used the coping skills I'd learned in therapy to deal with it, rather than seek help again. Eventually the pain eased, and I moved on. Sort-of. The pain, the loss, is always there, but I try not to let the depression interfere with my life. It does, though, deny it though I will.
It's not so bad, now that I'm taking Zoloft. Initially I started taking it for panic attacks and stress, but it also works for depression - that sad little blob on TV? That's me, I swear. So while I'm feeling better, I'm not cured - I don't think I ever will be - but it's tolerable now.
It's funny . . . in a sick, sad sort-of way, I always considered depression to be my constant companion; the one who would always be there, even when others weren't. The only one who wouldn't betray me, let me down, or abandon me. Gah! How sad it that?
