Boy, did I make the mistake of writing
in a public place while trying to put this together. Rereading this post from Chris Gethard while listening to Against Me!'s Transgender
Dysphoria Blues. “Two
Coffins” hit my brain like a ton of bricks and I was a teary eyed,
snot covered mess. At least I was in a suburban coffee place and
could give a fuck about any of the people there. Suddenly, my corner
cleared out and the walking Yelp reviews moved elsewhere.
Trying to find a
way to reconcile the six foot rubber poop monster that is my
depression with being the parent of a fifteen year old was stirred up
after reading about Chris Gethard's attempts to get right with his
previous work now that he is a parent. Most notably his one man show Career Suicide.
I try not to
conceal too much from my daughter. Now that she's old enough, I
approach our interactions with the same bluntness that I would with
long time friends. In my experience, family history and secrets are
poison and can lead to problems down the road. Being honest, open
and available to her can only help her in the long run to be able to
wrap her head around things.
If there were
things that my parents were honest with me about, I probably wouldn't
be better off but at least I would have the information to do what I
wanted with it. My parents come from the tail end of the generation
that never spoke about anything. The perceived fear of being shunned
by the surrounding community carried more weight than dealing with an
actual problem. If no one knows that there's a problem, then there
isn't a problem. The magic of ignorance was a wonderful thing while
it lasted. You just didn't talk about so and so anymore and the
problem went away.
The history of
depression runs deep as a canyon on both sides of the family and no
one ever said anything about it so the younger generations could be
aware of what was possibly going to hit them. We were all left to
figure out on our own why we couldn't bring ourselves to get off of
our couches to face the outside world.
One of the main
fears that Gethard wrote about is when his son is old enough to
stumble upon Career Suicide and how he would explain it to
him. That's the corner I'm trying to turn as I write this but my
brain is clamming up as I approach it and I stop typing. I'm not
sure if my kid reads these things. She is aware that I write them
but I have no idea if she gives them more than a glance or what she
thinks of them. I don't even know if the usual dread and
what-the-fuckness that I feel on a minute to minute basis comes
through in the writing.
Putting that
darkness at her feet is not something that I want to add to her daily
list of obstacles. A fifteen year old girl has enough to deal with
growing up. I have clued her in to the fact that the darkness is
there and it's alright if she has those feelings. But I always stop
short when the conversation starts to get too heavily aimed in my
direction. Shedding light on my challenges and struggles with her
has always been difficult. The old family practice of fear and shame
come roaring back. My male fragility kicks in and I become afraid
that her opinion of me will change so I end up speaking in
generalities. That might still be helpful to her but it lacks
specifics and feels like I'm being less than honest.
There are times
that I feel like the absolute wrong person for her to bring her
problems to. I spend so much time by myself that I easily forget how
to interact with other people. I've never been one that has had a
lot of friends so when she has a problem with her's my usual reaction
of “Fuck people” could be seen in some circles as less than
helpful.
The message that I
try to impart the most to her is to not be afraid to ask for help
which is a piece of advice that I have yet to heed myself. Self
medicating with music, coffee and denial is probably not the best
route to take when navigating through depression and anxiety. Alternating between the first four Black Sabbath and Ramones records
while guzzling a pot of coffee would never be recommended by a mental
health professional.
