I was told one time that I am not depressed. Apparently, I am a good faker. I wonder if I should have insisted and explained. Instead I just let it go and said that I must be better, and wasn’t that cool. Idiot.

It’s so hard to remain up all the time. I try to push down the sadness and go through my day as if everything is fine, but it’s not fine. It’s never fine. I wake up each morning and push down the desire to just remain in bed, sleeping away the day. I don’t wanna get up, but who else will take care of my daughter and make sure that everything is done for the day? Who else is going to go to work and make sure that we are able to survive? I don’t want to move. I want to let sleep take me again. I want to curl up and allow dreams to come, because even the dreams of sadness and heartache are better than living through the reality of it. Eventually (everyday), I do have to crawl out from under the warmth of my quilts and blankets and be a part of the cold world. I have to put on a face of strength and strictness with my students. I have to be un-sad for my daughter. I can’t fall apart, because if I do, who will be there for her? I cry silently. If I had a room in which to escape where I could be confident that she would be unable to hear my sobs, I would. For now, I sit at my table and silently weep. The tears sting at my eyes until they eventually roll down my cheeks and fall onto my clothes. I raise my arms and try to embrace myself, but I of course fail at that. The redness of my face and eyes betray me and she would know that I had been crying if she saw me. I can’t let that be because she will try her best to make it okay and comfort me. I hate that she feels she has to comfort me. That’s not her job. That’s my job, and I’m failing at it. I’m supposed to be the strong one. I’m supposed to be the one to comfort her. No twelve-year-old should have to wrap her mother up in her arms and wish that she could take away her pain. No one else has ever been able to take away my pain, but she takes that responsibility onto herself. I’m afraid that I’m causing her to be depressed too. Is it passed on? Does it have to be a burden she has to suffer with all her life? Her father was something…he was involuntarily committed to a hospital for observation after an attempt on our lives and his. He was supposed to go to therapy and take medication. I have no idea what his diagnosis was though. Is this pain unavoidable for her? I pray that she doesn’t have to experience this, but sometimes I can see it. I wonder if she is copying me.

Each day, I wake with the struggle to remain in control and do what needs to be done for life. God, life sucks. I don’t want to be here, but here I am fighting to survive each day. I’m fighting without it being observable to other people. I’m a silent warrior! I wish I could raise my sword and yell charge!! “Yo! Depression! Get the hell out of my life! Would you just leave me alone? Why are you picking on me!? EN GARDE!” I want to have an army of support. I can clearly imagine it! A jumble of fierce people gathered with swords and galea helmets by my side ready to fight with me. I’m all alone though. Where is my army? Can I recruit one? Imagine the battle! All of these warriors, with me in the lead…attacking a huge, hairy monster that is bringing despair to people. Let’s get him..or her..whatever.

What’s it like to live with this everyday? Depression is pushing against me, but most days, I push back. I drag myself out of bed and just go on with what I have to do. I do my work, my homework, my housework. I survive. I figure it out. I don’t allow myself to be forced into the deep pit that is always right there. It’s right there…I can see it, but no one else can see it. I whirl and teeter around it, like a Mexican Hat Dance. Sometimes, I find myself swinging my arms, desperately trying to right myself and not fall in. Then, there are mornings like today. Mornings when I find myself staring at the light way at the top of the pit and say to myself, “Oh hell. How am I going to make it out today?”, but I have to do it. I’d give anything not to, but I’ll pick up my heavy sword, crawl out of the pit, and yell at the darkness “I’m coming, ya’ fucker, I’m coming. Get out of my way!!” I look forward to the day when I’ll crawl out of that pit and have my army beside me! Together, we will fight that monster back and kick him into the pit. (THIS IS SPARTA!) We will seal it with a gigantic metal plate and secure a sign into the top with a warning not to uncover it. I imagine it to be kind of like Pandora’s Box. But, no one sees my struggle. Maybe I’m just too good at trying to disguise it. If no one sees it, does that mean that I won’t be able to find my army? I’ll just go on about my invisible, lonely battle, surviving until I don’t have to anymore. When will that be? When can I just lay down and not fight anymore? I guess it will be when my monster is safely sealed within that pit and the flag is waving under a blue sky for all to see. “Don’t open!”


I’m a 39 year old, single mother that can’t seem to find a place to settle. I have two children that I’ve moved to 8 states so far, seeking happiness. My son is 17 and my daughter is 12. I’m an educator of the Deaf and Hard-of-Hearing and have been teaching for 14 years. My entire family lives in Mississippi, but I’m staying away from there because I know being there won’t be good for me.