My teen had depression. This is our story

A working mother-turned-homemaker writes a searingly honest narrative of dealing with her teenage daughter’s unexpected depression

No two people dealing with loved ones who go through the darkness called depression have identical stories to share. This is my attempt to share my experience as a parent caregiver when the dreaded D hit home, though I admit words really cannot describe it fully. I have chosen to write anonymously because it allows me to hold on to my child’s privacy.

At the age of 15, my child was clinically depressed. And so, I became the primary parent caregiver who would take her to counselling sessions, keep a tab on medications, update her class teacher, and make sure that absolutely no one else heard about this because that was how my child wanted to deal with it. In all of this, it was most important for me to respect her wishes. So I smiled for the world around me, hiding our collective tears.

To see my precious one suffer from depression has been the toughest battle in my life. Not knowing what to do when she locked herself in her room or refused to eat, not knowing what to say when she cried that her life was hopeless, not understanding what she meant when she said she only saw darkness around on a perfectly sunny beautiful day outside, not knowing how to react when she screamed that she was scared but did not want me to hug her, to hold her close and comfort her — the mere memory of this makes me shudder.

Not big until it hits you

I had never before seen depression up close and this personal. Despite all the information floating around, mental health issues continue to be brushed under dusty carpets in homes as we struggle to make sense of it all. It’s not something big until it hits close. I failed to recognise the symptoms in my own child; I dismissed it as ‘teenage rebellion’ every time she screamed or fought at home. How could I have seen depression for what it is: dark days and disturbed nights, feeling numb to emotions and life itself, wanting friends but not leaving the room, waking up only to go back to sleep, dreaming about tomorrow but wondering if there’s meaning in living, and much more.

I was numb the night my princess broke down and told us, her parents, that she has been depressed, unhappy and angry. She had attempted self-harm on more than one occasion in the few days before that conversation. And she was talking to us only because she did not like what she had turned into. But why? What piece of the puzzle were we missing? She blamed us, her parents, for just about everything that did not make sense to her. I had given up my job because I wanted to be there for my child as she transitioned into her tweens. Even before quitting my job, I had ensured she had my full attention at home — I loved answering her endless questions, played house with her dolls, danced silly, read to her at bedtime, took her to the parks and the aquarium, ran alongside as she went from tricycle to bicycle, organised play dates and pyjama sleepovers with her friends, took her for hobby classes and every family gathering.

I recall getting out of bed the next day with bulging red eyes from the tears that simply would not stop all night. You see, guilt overtakes everything else when your kids are in pain.

The next few weeks were spent desperately trying to convince my teenage child to seek professional help, which was extremely important considering that she would not confide in me about what monsters she was fighting — alone. Finally, after almost six weeks, she agreed. But there was one condition: that I would not say a word to anyone, not even to my family. A tall order and I had no choice except to agree. She started medication and counselling therapy. I was the primary caregiver parent and since my child was still a minor, I had to sit in on a few sessions while for others I was asked to wait outside. It was painful to see my child lay her thoughts bare. But I did not fully comprehend depression because I was still in denial.

How do I help my child?

That is, till the day the counsellor told me that my child had wanted to jump off a building much before she sought help. The only thing that prevented her from actually jumping from the edge was my face which flashed in front of her at that moment! I remember standing up unable to breathe and I had momentarily blanked out. I do not remember what I said or felt when I came to. Just grateful to God that something had stopped this child and that she was meant to still be here. I met the counsellor separately, desperate to find out if there was anything I could really do. As mothers, women are programmed to do everything in their power to protect kids from harm while ignoring their own selves. And I am no different.

I made earnest efforts to help my child cope. I faltered every time I questioned the why of things and we fought — me in confusion, she in rage. She would not talk for days. I spent nights worrying. Her father was dealing with a midlife crisis of sorts and was unavailable emotionally; rather, he too needed my support. I was all alone in this fight and I could not give up.

Mental health illnesses are not easy for caregivers, because we cannot see the hurt or know what the person is going through. We can only listen and act on what the person is comfortable letting us do. My child’s depression stripped me of my defences. My health took a beating and I gained weight, became hypertensive, my hormones went into overdrive, and I had body rashes and acidity triggered by stress leading to a state of panic often. I slept for four hours or less every night, lost interest in meeting people, was very irritable and I tired easily.

Meanwhile, the medications were playing havoc on my child’s mind and she had started to feel that she was not alone in her room. So for almost 20 months, I slept in her bed because she believed that I could chase away the monsters lurking under her cot. She would cry over everything, wake up in the middle of the night and stare emptily. Initially, I was admittedly scared that she might harm herself while I dozed. But soon, I found ways to pat her back to sleep, while I stayed up watching her breathe. And we were able to convince the doctor to ease her off the meds and increase counselling time. I did not have the energy to deal with anything else except my child. And so I prayed every day for strength. Somehow, our family boat stayed afloat in choppy waters.

One day her smile would light up the room but the next day she would spiral down, crying in agony and feeling trapped in darkness. She wouldn’t move her limbs. I had to now learn about panic attacks. I couldn’t share my pain with anyone but was determined to journey through this scary dark tunnel. I talked to my close friends who motivated me to get through the day despite not knowing what was troubling me. And I ‘talked’ to God too for it was my time to introspect, seek solutions within me and keep my wits about me in this lonely battle. I also joined a gym.

Emerging from the darkness

Her 16th birthday is a blur to me but I saw my child laugh for the first time in a year. There were days when she would sit with me and put her head on my lap. No, I still could not hug her. I had to constantly fight off my tears, We agreed that she would call out for me when she felt panicky and tell me in words what I could do to help. She was now some months away from board exams and I was in knots worrying if she would even scrape through. But she made the bravest attempts to stick to study plans and came out with flying colours in the exams, even aced a subject in school. A stupendous achievement in the most testing of times!

While I stayed brave and patient, I was also dealing with a rollercoaster of heavy emotions every single day because my child was in the grip of darkness so great that she was struggling to come up for air and light. I took a few counselling sessions on and off just to steady my mind because I was emotionally drained and highly forgetful. The gym helped. I confided in my own mother but only the tip of the iceberg, so she wouldn’t worry too much. Slowly, we emerged out of the eye of the storm.

There are days when depression rears its head even now, but we have coping mechanisms that we use immediately. When memories of those dark days taunt me, I help myself cope with some deep breaths, two glasses of cold water, copious amounts of tears, a few minutes in prayer and some downtime with our pet dog, in no particular order.

The thing about a mother-daughter bond is that they can fight like cats but will head out and return home as friends. In our case, depression had made plans for us. We have lost a few good years not doing things that mothers and daughters do — she did not raid my wardrobe or pick my favourite lipstick, we haven’t gone on walks together chatting about her crushes or movies, etc. We couldn’t debate about her career or her study choices because she would not listen to me. Instead, we have spent all the time putting the ‘c’ back in her confidence.

But things have improved in the last few months. We have gone out for very short coffee outings. We watch old Bollywood movies on the telly but after an hour, she needs to be left alone. We go for leisurely walks sometimes now. She hugs me once in a while. It’s a good start. It’s not easy but I know my daughter will emerge stronger, for she is a survivor and a resilient one at that. I sleep a little longer these days, knowing that my child is sleeping soundly too. Not a day passes though, without hoping that she never slips back into the darkness. What’s a mother without her worries after all?

The writer is a senior journalist who wishes to be anonymous.

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