Dark Demons

I've been thinking back on my past a lot recently. When I look at my baby girl's face, so constantly full of joy, with her little gap-toothed grin and the way her cheeks take over her entire face when she smiles, it reminds me that one of my greatest worries is that she will struggle with the darkness that I suffered when I was a kid.

I suffered two especially devastating periods of depression in my life. The first began around age 14 and lasted through my junior year of high school. I constantly thought of suicide. I screamed and fought with my parents and then had sobbing breakdowns in my room. I thought of my own head as being a black, dark and unsettled place. I sat alone and wallowed in my misery often. If I were that kid now, with the attention that has been brought to teen depression and the medication that is now available, I think I'd be able to speak up and to help myself. But back then, I stayed silent.

The second bout occurred in the second semester of my sophomore year of college. It was motivated by several things, including the end of a romantic relationship and my perceived loss of several of my best friends. I wrapped myself in a cocoon of self-pity and misery. I told everyone that I was so over college, when in reality I was so depressed that I couldn't even begin to see a way out of it. (On the upside, I wrote some of the best poetry of my life.) Eventually I chose to drop out of school, making a decision that for better or worse has influenced the course of my life.

I know that depression is hereditary, but also that it is shadowy and unpredictable. It can skip over one sibling and strike another. And because depression is something that we so often hold inside, it can be difficult to tell how badly someone is suffering. My parents always made themselves available to me, and in many ways we've had an open and honest relationship with each other. But when I was a teenager, something inside of me kept me from telling them what I was truly going through. Through my own pride, I never felt like asking for help was an option.

This is what scares me about having a daughter. I've always been a private person who finds it difficult to talk frankly about what I'm feeling, especially if those feelings are ugly and complicated. Will she be similar? Will she learn how to paste on a pretty, smiling face when inside she's hurting terribly? Will she feel obligated to feign happiness in order to make others happy?

It wasn't until my late 20s that I learned how to cope with my depression, but I did eventually learn. And these days when I start worrying about her, I remind myself that there are ways around it. What I will teach her first and foremost is that wallowing in self-pity is pointless. Sure, we all do it -- moping and being moody is practically required when you're a teenager. But I want to teach her that there are things we can do to mitigate the misery. Like going outside and being active, even if it's the last thing we feel like. Or spending time with other people, when we'd rather be alone. Most of all I want to teach her that some days, life just feels blue and when it does, it just does . And on those days you've got to just ride the wave. Hide under your covers, write furious poetry, eat some chocolate, cry and feel bad. Because eventually it will pass, and the blackness will diminish, and you will feel okay again.