A glimpse at a mother’s depression

(Because I am such a fun gal, I’ve decided to share a little bit of my latest work in progress as far as writing goes. I am working on a project about my struggle with chronic depression while attempting to mother my four children, two with Down syndrome, and two with the usual number of chromosomes, and live in the realm of professional Christianity as a former missionary and now as a pastor’s wife. Depression isn’t usually a word a lot of Christians talk about. Well, I’m talking about it. And I will continue to talk about it because it needs to be talked about, and it helps me to heal. I’m not depressed today (mom, you don’t have to call after reading this), but whenever I read this scene, the words bring weight back to my chest.)

I’d like a drink of water, but I can’t imagine getting out of bed, walking downstairs, turning on the faucet and filling a glass to bring to my lips.

I hear the kids downstairs, they are home from school. My husband is telling them to put away their coats, hats, and gloves. Polly is singing a song from Super Why, and Zoya is complaining that Elaina is mean. Pots and pans shuffle around in the kitchen. I imagine Sergei clicking on the gas to the oven, and pulling out a pan to start dinner. I listen, holding my breath, wondering if the signs of life downstairs will bring a pulse back to my chest? I push the air out of my cheeks, and feel my body sink deeper into the mattress. I roll over, and put the soft white comforter with a black design over my face.

“Mom?”

I’m down under a mud puddle somewhere in a dream. I hear a muffled voice. “Mom? It’s time for dinner. Mom?” I roll onto my back and squint my eyes up at Zoya, my middle child, the easiest baby for me, the one who still crawls up in my lap and rests her head on my breast like she’d nurse if she could.

“Hi.” I clear my voice. This is where it gets tricky. I don’t want to scare my kids. I glob together blips of energy lollygagging in my body. My mind gathers them together like worn out pieces of left over pie crust that won’t stay together, even with a little flour and spit.

“Hi honey. How was school?”

“OK.”

Zoya’s voice is small and distant. I see the fear in her eyes, and work hard to remember if I’ve taken a shower today, or yesterday, or if I will, perhaps take one tomorrow. I can’t imagine what I must look like.

“Um, Papa says it’s time for dinner. Can you come down and eat with us?” My daughter, her face creamy and smooth, like white velvet. I catch her sometimes, when I’m well, lying in her bed alone. “Whatchya doin?” I say nonchalantly. “Nothing, just resting.” “OK, honey, love you.” I walk down our light yellow hallway wondering if she feels sad at all, deep down in her heart? Would she tell me if she did?. I worry she’ll get whatever whacked gene I seemed to have inherited that makes life bad and hard for no real, apparent reason. I hope to God it isn’t so.

“No, I’m not going to come down for dinner tonight. I’m still not feeling great.”

“Ok, do you want us to bring you up a plate?”

“Maybe a little later.”

Zoya bends toward me, wraps her soft arms around the bulk of my body hidden under the covers. Her embrace stops the ache, just for a second. A tear slides down my cheek and I wipe it away before she can see it.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too, Zoya.”

She leaves my bedroom, and I wriggle around on the mattress to find a way to ease the pain of my heart and body. She closes the door.

I’m covered in black again.