Depression has a pretty face

“You’re too pretty to be sad,” mom said. I was five and my teacher had made fun of me because I’d asked for help zipping up my coat. Teacher cackled at me and announced to the class that I still could not zip my own jacket. Except I really could zip my own coat.. when the zipper wasn’t stuck in a crease of fabric.  It upset me, and on my walk home I quietly cried to myself.

Mom enveloped me in a hug when I walked through the door and she saw my running nose and wet cheeks. She stroked my hair and made those soft cooing noises that only mothers can make. She quoted Audrey Hepburn and reminded me that I was beautiful.

“I believe in pink. I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles.”- Audrey Hepburn

I was reminded that I was beautiful often. I was reminded of my need to be beautiful more than that.

My dad never really knew how to show compassion. Tears weren’t something he wanted to deal with, and only seeing his children every –other weekend didn’t give him that chance to figure out how to show his love. I knew it was there, though. I’d squirm as he dragged a brush through my tangled curls and lathered myself in his Zest soap when he told me I needed to bathe. The gritty mint smell comforted me because pretty girls took baths and got their curls brushed out every morning. I knew this because he would stand me in front of the mirror and tell me to look at how pretty I was after I’d been made up for the day. My dad had pride in me then.

On one of those days, after I was all done up, I ran off to play. My brother and I made a game out of jumping off the porch and onto the driveway. He was older and bigger, but that just made me want to do what he did even more. I watched as he leapt with ease from the bannister. The climb to the top was harder than I thought. My legs wobbled as I rose to my feet. The ground seemed so far away, but I bent my knees and jumped anyway. In the air. Down to the ground. My feet couldn’t handle the landing and I slid forward skinning my knees. Tears started then. Deep sobs brewed from the pain and snot ran from my nose, lubricating my lips.

“Did you hurt the ground?” Dad joked. “Knock off that crying,” he continued. “All that does is get you covered in snot and makes you ugly.”  He laughed and scooped me off the ground into an embrace.

I didn’t want to be ugly. Pretty girls are happy girls.

At seven I scribbled in my notebook after my Grandma died. She wasn’t something I was ready to lose, and I still struggle accepting that she is gone. I don’t tell people that, though. Instead I write something to get it out, push the rest of it down, and move on. I did cry at her funeral, though. As I looked at the porcelain shell of the woman I adored I let myself feel, and I let everyone see me feel.  After the ceremony ended, and my family gathered in a line to shake hands with other mourners, I slipped away. Downstairs I found myself in a bathroom staring in a mirror at the red splotches that covered my face and neck. It was then that I promised I wouldn’t do it again. I wouldn’t let people see the ugly. I would be happy.

So I learned to bury it.

The harder the feeling, the deeper I dug.  I pushed the feeling down as far as it would go, far enough away for a smile to take its place. Pushing and burying worked. So did writing. Writing turned my feelings into something beautiful that I could actually show people.

But what I didn’t expect was for that pile to grow--the pile of stories and the mound of sadness that lived buried deep inside me.

 

Today those piles still grow.

It seems that lately I find myself at war with feelings in general. Everywhere I turn, something is telling me to feel. And I do feel. So much that I don’t know what to do with it. During a phone call with a dear friend, I spilled the story of my current emotional distress, to which she calmly and eloquently suggested that perhaps I am dealing with some depression and that maybe I should see someone—a notion I’ve causally joked about for some time—and maybe someday I will.

On my mission of self-discovery, and learning how to feel, I’ve realized one important thing: I need to be honest with myself (something I am still working on).

And honestly, I’m not ready to hear that I am sad. I am not ready to let the ugly show. I’m not ready to admit that I am not in control, or that even the prettiest of faces can be sad.