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So I’ll just start here.
I picked up this book on parenting while depressed. It was fucking useless. It literally consisted of one paragraph (in the chapter I went to for the guidance it said I needed for the problem I was facing (bad sentence is bad)) that boiled down to, “don’t put too much on your school age children and ask for help if you are.”
I immediately threw the book away. I’d been suspicious when I saw it was written by three clinicians, not say, oh, I dunno, a parent with depression and a clinician.
Who I can tell you right now without looking do not have situational or clinical depression. Because if they’d EVER had a fucking brush with the dementor that is that black fucking beast, they would NEVER have written such a condescending and throwaway paragraph.
You’re going to count on your kids too much. My mother did. I am right now and I hate it. The key is to be fucking aware of it and mitigate it as much as possible, *as you can.* And when you can’t, beg for forgiveness and take care of yourself until you can step up again.
Yes, ask for help. From anyone and everyone.
And this is this giant fucking BUT.
I understand how fucking hard that can be. I know to my bones that the last thing you want to do is say, “I need help. I have run out of can and my children deserve better. HELP.”
So start small. Write a note to yourself. Write, “I need help.”
Nothing more. Just that.
Look at it for a while.
Then go to your best friend, the one you can trust, no matter how much your brain is screaming that you can’t trust or believe anyone. Even if that best friend is the freaking internet, and either say or write:
I need help.
And keep saying it. And keep writing it. Once or more times a day. And in my experience, you will find that somehow (I don’t know how) you will be able to either feel better because help will have arrived or you will find the strength to pick up that phone and call a professional’s office or ask to get driven to a hospital.
But the next person who fucking says anywhere that I can hear, “Oh, just ask for help if you are in trouble,” is getting set on fire.
If it were that fucking easy, we wouldn’t be sick.
This disease takes that from us. It’s one of the many things it takes. It eats hope. It steals imagination. It destroys creativity. There is no fucking thing as a productive creative who is depressed. Anyone who says otherwise?
Getting set on fire.
I make no apologies.
And if you need help, I’m here. I’m in the hole too and the dementor is just outside.
But I know a way out.
I love you.
If you’re protesting abortion, the Supreme Court says you can get right in women’s faces and scream at them on their way into the clinic. Because freedom of speech.
But if you try and protest the murder of a black man, you get tear gas fired at you.
I was away from the big screen for an hour, and when I sat back down, all five of my Twitter columns were dotted with “don’t look for the video” or “don’t look at the photos” or, in a few places, “I apologise for linking ISIS propaganda.” All this amid the empathy spill around the disgusting Ferguson situation and a few outliers bitching about Twitter surfacing favourites from people you don’t…
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