She was a frail figure with short, grey hair. Despite the loss of her teeth, she spoke with clarity and precision that commanded attention.
She was a believer of God and found solace in attending church. But multiple falls and broken bones prevented her from continuing to worship in her beloved sanctuary.
“The Lord Jesus is what keeps me going” she lamented.
“Do you still pray to him?” I asked.
“Of course. He’s not just at Church, he’s always with me in my heart.”
She pulled her sleeve, revealing her bruised, tender arm, a painful reminder of her many falls. Her skin, dry and flaky, was in desperate need of hydration, but it seemed like the least of her worries at the moment.
“I’ve been depressed for the past 55 years,”
She confessed to me, her voice heavy with sorrow.
I did the math. She had been struggling with depression since she was just 24 years old.
“What triggered your first bout of depression?” I inquired gently.
“The death of my first child,” she replied, her eyes glistening with tears.
“He died at birth. There’s not a single day that goes by that I don’t think of him.”
Her voice trembled as she spoke, and I felt a knot form in my own throat. The death of a child is one of the most heartbreaking experiences a parent can endure, and she had been carrying that weight for more than five decades.
Her depression manifested as constant crying, a never-ending well of tears with no clear trigger. Medication had been prescribed, but it merely dulled her emotions and left her feeling numb.
Despite her struggles, she welcomed conversation.
“It’s nice to have people to talk to,” she said.
I tried to offer her a distraction from her pain, suggesting colouring or a game of Scrabble. But she declined, unable to hold a pencil or lacking her glasses.
The one thing that brightened her day was when I asked if she would like a cup of tea.
“Yes, please,” she said, smiling faintly. “With milk and one sugar.”
As I watched her trudge back to her room, I couldn’t help but think about how depression can be like a heavy blanket, muffling everything in its suffocating embrace. It can sap a person’s strength, leaving them unable to muster the energy to even get out of bed on some days.
But there is hope for those who suffer from depression. With the right treatment and support, individuals can find their way back to the light, and begin to live their lives with renewed purpose and meaning.
Note: This story is a fictionalised account inspired by my encounters with mental health lived experiences.
This story was originally published on Medium.
