The text of this blog is a manuscript I wrote between 2004 and 2006 about my experience with depression, and what I learned from it. I claim no psychiatric or medical expertise; I only wrote what I felt. My standpoint is that of an LDS wife and mother who has experienced depression. I know that countless others have this trial as well, and have included some thoughts, feelings, and stories from several others who were good enough to share their experiences with me (names have been changed). I feel that if there is even the slightest chance that someone may gain any measure of peace or comfort from my thoughts--even if it is derived simply from knowing that you are not alone--then this is well worth my time. If you don't agree with what I say here, that's fine with me. I never mean to oversimplify or trivialize the experience of depression, and I don't claim that anything I say will cure anyone. If you or anyone you know has depression, I hope that what I say might help. (I'll warn you right now though, if you're currently depressed, you'll probably be inclined to tell yourself that this stuff doesn't apply to you.)
Since writing this, I've experienced depression a couple of times, in the form of postpartum depression that I didn't even recognize for what it was for quite awhile, since it manifested itself more in anger than in sadness. I've also had some experience with anxiety, which adds a whole new and awful dimension to the whole thing. But for any of these circumstances, I think that the more we can talk about all of it, the more power we reclaim.

-Jana

Taking Our Medicine

One morning when Emma was one, I was giving her an antibiotic for an ear infection. She hated it and let me know with her angry screams. I felt bad, and tried to explain my cruelty by telling her, “I’m sorry you think I’m the meanest mommy in the world, but I have to give you medicine because I love you so much and I want you to get better.” I knew she couldn’t understand that something unpleasant could actually help her, but it does, whether she understands it or not. I know that someday she will understand it, but it won’t be for a long time, and by then she will have forgotten my cruelty in giving her nasty medicine, letting nurses give her shots, or leaving her in her crib to cry so she can learn to go back to sleep on her own.
Sometimes, in our finite vision and understanding, we are like little children, crying about the nasty medicine or the pain, and He’s there, in his infinite wisdom, trying to tell us, “It’s because I love you so much.” But we get even more upset, and sometimes angry, when we don’t receive relief, or even an explanation of why. But our loving Father often has to let us cry. We have to get hurt, we have to feel sorrow, and we have to experience terrible things as a part of mortality. Like it or not, it’s usually for our good.
Joseph Smith’s experience in Liberty Jail is a perfect example of this. After pleading for relief, asking his Father why He had left him alone, asking how long he would have to suffer,[1] he received his answer: “My son, peace be unto thy soul. Thine adversity and thine affliction shall be but a small moment.” And then, after listing all the terrible things that had happened or could happen to Joseph, He told him, “Know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.”[2] How many times do we, as loving parents, allow things to happen to our children, and, knowing that they won’t possibly understand until much later, promise them, “It’s for your own good”?
[1] D&C 121:1-6
[2] D&C 122:8, emphasis added

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