I hate you

My 10-year-old daughter and my 5-year-old son have a love-hate relationship. He loves her and she hates him. Well, at least some of the time. She oftentimes plays with him especially if she can set the terms. She is a skilled negotiator (a.k.a. manipulator) who can usually get people to see things her way. However, she loses her patience with him which results in crying followed by “I wish we never adopted him. Let’s send him back.”

The other day, this whole pattern cycled through but this time she said “I want to kill myself.” Time out.... In the medical world this is a statement that is not to be taken lightly. It generally means a trip to the emergency room and a psych consult. That further tempered with a suicide in a relative from someone at my daughter’s school made me sit up and pay attention. Should I be taking her to the ER? Calling her pediatrician?

I sat with her and listened to her complaints and stroked her hair while she cried. She was fine yesterday. I wanted to take her seriously, yet it was hard to when she has never shown signs of depression before.

I kept a close eye on her the entire day. I encouraged (forced) her to go on a family bike ride thinking that between the exercise and the sun exposure that would help her sullen mood. And it did. Where the Spring Creek trail merges into the Poudre trail we pulled over to throw rocks into the water and everyone was in good spirits again. She even played with the boy that night despite my repeatedly saying that she really didn’t have to.

Luckily this episode was a false alarm. Girl drama. But I will remain super alert as she inches towards puberty, as I know the risk of depression increases during this developmental period. At least I know where to find a good therapist…

On the other side of the fence

I have a long family history of depression. My grandparents on both sides suffered with serious cases of depression and one from each side were severe alcoholics. My parents suffered the same crippling depression as well as alcoholism and drug addiction. Aunts, uncles, cousins -all have some level of depression. My sisters have dealt with it as well, on top of anxiety disorders and eating disorders. Every single person in my family, including myself, have dealt with it one way or another.

My first experiences with depression were the years that I lived in absolute hell in an abusive home when I was a pre-teen. It resulted with me running away twice my freshman year of high school, where my mom called the police to drag me back home, and then two suicide attempts after that. I eventually moved out when I was 15 to live with cousins I'd never met before.

After I graduated high school, got married and lived with my husband, my depression seemed to disappear. I had cut-off my mom to never speak to her again and helped my sisters through early escapes of their own. My depression was situational rather than a chemical imbalance (unlike so many other people in my family), so if life was "normal" then I felt "normal". While life certainly had it's ups and downs, I was depression-free until I became a mom.

After my first pregnancy, I had a pretty bad case of (untreated) post-partum depression. The combination of post-pregnancy hormones and disrespectful in-laws lead me into months of pain. Pain that I hadn't felt since those early teen years; anxiety and deep sadness that is almost unexplainable. It felt as though my heart was literally breaking to pieces inside my chest and every cell in my body dripped aching tears. After my second pregnancy, the post-partum depression was less, but still fragile in complicated family interactions. I was able to manage it, over come post-traumatic stress disorder and have since become depression-free once again.

I felt like my many years of personal experience with depression made me an expert in some kind of way. Years of therapy, a few (unsuccessful) trials with medications, and a lot of introspective writing were all my weapons. It was a monster I fought and won. Which is why is was so shocked and caught off guard when my husband began battling his own fight with depression and I felt like a failure, completely unsure of how to help him.

His depression is the general type that most of us deal with. One day sitting on the couch he told me how he felt. He should be the happiest person in the world; he has a great job that pays more than the bills, a happy home and marriage - everything he could ever want. But he had an unexplainable sadness. I had no idea what to do other than hug him, listen and assure him that it would be alright. There were always reasons behind my bouts with depression and thus, there was always a way to "fix" it. I frantically searched my mind for ways to fix the problem and after realizing there was nothing to fix, I felt lost.

I didn't like being on the other side of the fence. It was actually easier for me to be dealing with depression than somebody else. I knew I was a strong person and could win the battle, but watching someone go through their own fight was unnerving. I love him more than any other person on the face of the Earth, which makes this voyeuristic position almost unbearable. At this point, I realized how lonely depression was on all sides, not just for the depressed.

He is overcoming that darkness that haunted me for years. With some tools of his own, he's not just sitting there suffering. But it is so incredibly uncomfortable for me to sit by and watch from the other side of the fence feeling helpless. Knowing that it's not a battle I can fight for him, grabbing a sword to get a few stabs in myself, all I can do is sit and listen. I don't feel like it's enough. I'd rather be the one fighting the fight.

Zero To One

My husband used to ask our child-blessed friends which was harder, going from one to two or two to three. I always wanted three. The general consensus was that once you have two, adding more was easy.

I had sailed through college, worked several years including two abroad, entered grad school and married soon after, all along nurturing a horde of hobbies: photography, guitar, hiking, Japanese, on went the list. I held onto my dream in the face of infertility and when I defended my master's thesis eight months pregnant, life was good.

True, I did not like holding, smelling, hearing, or even looking at babies. "It'll be different when it's your own," I'd been told. But countless hours spent in my blue rocking chair, bedroom door shut, weepy eyes studying a tiny suckling infant, heart aching desperately to love her with a fierce maternal bond did not make it so. I was a babysitter and not even a good one.

I lost myself in those postpartum months. Yet in the dark cocoon of depression I was being forever transformed. When at last I spread my wings to soar, I found joy and freedom and beauty in the flight. I discovered the height of a mother's love. I became a mom.

My third child was born this year, and I am happy. My whiteboard pen has been replaced by a feeding spoon, book pages by baby wipes, guitar picking fingers plucking cheerios from linoleum. Though at times I cast a wistful glance at the box of watercolors or the shelf of gourmet cookbooks, I am content to stash them away for a season of life that has redefined me. And I know that if I am ever asked whether it's harder going from one to two or two to three, I will have to say that my greatest challenge was going from zero to one.

Kristina Lim