My mother’s depression
Is not my depression
It doesn’t belong to me
Nor did I invite it in to stay
Yet it lives in me now and again
A link to this woman who bore me
Deftly intertwined it moves
As though it were mine
A weight I bear unbidden
My lot in this half-life
What would it be like
To let it go as an alien?
To visit without falling into the pit?
To understand it from her point of view?
I’ve been turning things like this over in my mind and heart for the last week. The insight isn’t mine. It’s a gift from a friend who has walked with me for several decades.
‘My’ depression isn’t mine. Yes, it’s real and present. Yet it was and still is my mother’s deep depression, fed by my father’s behavior toward her and toward me. The sad price of being a gifted white woman in post-depression (ironic) and post-World War II life in the USA.
Held back, kept in check, insanely busy with housework and babies, submissive preacher’s wife, versatile church musician without a pay check, resourceful volunteer ever ready to help others in return for nothing, cheery and even-tempered, industrious and persistent, she held it all together in her bent and broken body.
Uncomplaining, weary, in pain 24/7 and depressed. Sometimes crying herself to sleep. Other times waking with horrifying cramps.
My heart goes out to her today in ways it couldn’t years ago.
Yet I can’t accept her depression as my depression. It isn’t mine. This one insight invites me to stay connected to her reality without making it my reality. I can only breathe my air, not hers.
These days it seems ever more acceptable to trash women of all colors and make them into problems they are not. In response, I want to do justice to the woman my mother was while showing mercy to her as the woman she could not be or become.
She was not the problem then, just as I am not the problem now.
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 16 November 2018
Book cover photo found at bookdepository.com