Invisible Illness

When my friend’s child experienced deep depression in years that she had imagined would be full of joy, she struggled with comparing their family to those in their neighborhood or at her child’s school. It’s easy to look around and see other families having the seemingly simple experiences of taking kids to sports games or going swimming as a family. She would often find herself feeling robbed of these experiences, instead sitting with her child in the dark inner world depression had created for them. 

Tasks that others seemed to do with joy-- dropping kids at school, going to the park-- seemed more often to feel almost impossible. Screaming in the backseat of the car, her child would beg to stay home from school or, if they made it inside, would ask to go to the nurse’s office multiple times per day to escape the classroom. 

What often added another layer of difficulty on top of her family’s experience was the disbelief she felt from those around her. Upon telling her child’s second grade teacher that her seven year old often talked about wishing they were dead, the teacher replied, “Well, in 26 years of teaching that’s not one I’ve heard before!” Another friend, a social worker, brushed it off as her child “being dramatic.” Her child’s illness felt invisible to others, even though to her it felt more clear than a broken arm or a brain tumor.

She imagined the path forward. If this was what life looked like at seven years old, what would twelve look like? How would her child make it to fourteen?

Her child had had significant medical trauma early in life. Although they had seen multiple therapists in her child’s young life, my friend knew that the attachment exercises they had so often focused their time on hadn’t addressed the root issues. She didn’t have words for what she saw, but she knew those early experiences and this childhood depression were tied.

After much effort, she found a therapist who knew exactly what she was talking about. The therapist had adopted a child who had had significant medical trauma early in life, and had made it her mission to understand what was happening.

She taught my friend’s family about the most current brain research. She validated their experiences. She taught them a whole new language that helped them see depression not as part of my friend’s child, but as a disease to be fought so that her child could be their full self again. She gave them a huge tool box that they learned to work hard with-- figuring out which tool to bring out as depression tried its different tricks. Together, they visualized Dark Cloud Thoughts moving in and her child telling them, “Not today!” and bossing them back where they came from.

My friend often talks about depression being part of her child’s life, much in the way a childhood diagnosis of diabetes might be. Her family has pulled our community of friends into their experience, encouraging us to also use this analogy-- would we be secretive or nervous to ask about how things were going with managing diabetes? If not, then they are clear that we can ask the same questions about depression. In fact, she has told us that this openness with their community might save her child’s life. Hopefully, it will also help the next family find belief and support earlier.