Written November 10, 2017
My back is glued to the bed. Can’t get up. Am I depressed?
It’s hard to talk about it. The stigma lingers. Would you easily say, “I’m depressed” to a friend who says, “Kumusta?” I won’t. I’ll need at the very least, “Kumusta ka?”, or “Are you ok?” Yet, sometimes even that won’t work. Someone close to me has to really want and care enough to know. Maybe “You look sad. Want to talk about it?” would do better.
It’s harder if you can’t even understand what’s happening to you, and harder still if it’s someone you love who has been acting strangely and all the more to let others know that you or your child has been diagnosed with clinical depression.1
“Me? My child? How could it happen to my perky, emotionally stable, spiritually active family?”
It can happen to anyone. I am not a health professional and had not been diagnosed with depression. But I have seen how family and close friends get affected by mental illness.2 And I have likewise seen how people get healed.
I knew I had to do something about the stigma I and the rest of society have given it. I discovered that my ignorance about mental illness explains why I get so taken aback by the fact that it could happen even to the happiest of individuals, to the very best of families.
After losing my dad to cancer, I gave myself freedom to grieve, but did not plan to stay in it for long — only to be surprised at how death in the family can unravel more complex issues I never thought existed. I had days of not wanting to leave my room, and not wanting to get up from bed, thinking I could just sleep off my sadness. But God graciously intervened with comfort, using my loving husband and kids to strengthen me. I have also been witness to how my father fully surrendered to Jesus, and this truth has peacefully assured me of the eternal life my Papa enjoys in the Lord.
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