An Open Letter to My Dad About My Struggle With Depression and Anxiety

Dearest Daddio,

I know how hard it must have been for you to hear me open up about my experiences with depression and anxiety after the incident at the family Christmas party. I know it must have been painful to hear me explain that this isn’t new — that it’s always been this bad. I know it must have been a poignant reminder of the dear friends you have already lost to suicide.

For all of this pain, I am so sorry, but I have no regrets.

In fact, there are so many more things I want to tell you, stories I want to share, and advice I want to give you on how best to help me. You asked me what you can do to help. You asked me to guide you and show you how to change and be there for me in the ways I need you to be. I’ve been turning it over in my mind for days and I’m afraid I’ll begin to forget some of the more important things if I don’t write them down.

It might seem excessive or tacky to you to post this message to the internet for all the world to see. In a strange way, it almost feels less scary to me to share all of this with strangers than with some of the people closest to me. But there’s a sea-change happening in society around mental illness and the stigma that’s been so long attached to it and it’s important to me that I be a part of it. This seemed like as good an opportunity as any to join the conversation.

As an only child, I often wonder if I am what you wanted, what you imagined your child would be like. I wonder if you were hoping for a strong, stoic son that you could easily relate to. I think parents with multiple children have the ability to say, “This is my son, he’s ‘the sensitive one’. This is my daughter, she’s 'the athletic one.” But when you’re an only child I think there’s an unspoken pressure to be all of those things at once, whether you are or not. Regardless, for better or worse, a steady, impervious child is not what you got. God gave you a smart, compassionate, sensitive daughter with mental health issues.

Yes, I am sensitive. Yes, my tolerance for jokes and laughter at my expense is probably lower than you would like. I have, out of necessity, thickened my skin substantially over the years, but I have a breaking point. I can only take so much. You saw that pretty clearly the other night, I think. I hate to break it to you, but that’s just the way it is. That’s just the way I am.

Perhaps this frustrates you. Perhaps you believe I need to “toughen up” or else be ill-equipped for the realities of The Real World. On the contrary, I would argue that the world is already a hard, cruel, dark place to have to navigate; my family should be a soft place to land. A place to be supported and encouraged, not one that is just as unforgiving as the outside world.

Plus, I’m a lot tougher than you give me credit for. Trust me, if I weren’t tough as nails I wouldn’t still be here.

You have already lost too many loved ones to the tragedy of suicide and, as you said, the stakes this time are too high. What do we always say when we lose someone? “I wish I had known. I wish he had said something. I wish she had asked for help.” Well, this is me asking for help.

I’m getting all the professional help I possibly can on my own and I have an amazing network of friends I can lean on. I have made so much progress over the past 10 years and I am incredibly proud of myself for that, but I need you. I need my dad. When mom died 10 years ago, you said you got a wakeup call that you suddenly needed to be both dad and mom to me. That’s a learning curve I don’t envy, so maybe this letter will serve to help you understand how to do that even better.

The support I am asking you for is not much and can be summed up in a few words: Listen, believe me, and be kind.

God doesn’t make mistakes. He gave you a sensitive daughter with mental health issues, knowing full well that you would struggle to understand me, that it would be challenging for us both. He gave me to you to teach you something: how to support people with mental health issues — if you’re willing to learn.

For the record, I already think you’re wonderful and just about the coolest dad on the planet and you’re hitting it out of the park just by being willing to have these kinds of conversations with me. A lot of people with similar issues to mine aren’t that lucky and I want you to know I don’t take that for granted. But there are some specific things I want you to know about my mental illnesses, things that I think will help you understand me and support me better. Take a seat, pops. Class is in session.

I am working my ass off, every damn day.

The first thing I want to get through to you is how hard I have to work every damn day just to stay alive. You have no idea what it’s like to live your entire life battling depression almost every day to some degree, how many demons I have to beat back just to get out of bed some mornings, how hard I have to work to convince myself almost every day that I am not a worthless piece of shit.

The medications, the doctors, the hundreds of hours of therapy, dozens of self-help books, meditation and yoga, the network of supportive friends I have carefully built over the years (and toxic friends I have had to cut ties with), all of it is me fighting for my life, striving to find an ounce of peace and respite from my own fucked up mind.

I don’t have a lot of control over what’s going to trigger the depression to rear its ugly head — it’s often a roll of the dice what kind of a state I’m going to wake up in each day or even how I’ll feel from moment to moment — if you find that frustrating, you should try living with it.

I often feel like Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde.

I feel like there are two sides to me that are in a near-constant tug-of-war. The part of me that is joyful, optimistic, rational, friendly, outgoing, funny, and adventurous I truly believe is the “real me” — she is my best and highest self. The other side is sad, bitter, pessimistic, emotional, self-deprecating, judgmental, hopeless, cynical, and insecure.

When Ms. Hyde takes the wheel, I lose all hope for myself, for humanity, and for a brighter future. It feels awful, it feels permanent, and it feels so real. Rationally, I know that it is the depression talking and that it will pass, but emotionally it is impossible to believe that that is true.

I cannot overstate how painful this state of mind is. Not just mentally and emotionally, but physically as well. Anxiety, in particular, is physically painful. It feels like a vice tightening around my heart while my gut contorts itself into knots and my head feels like it’s going to explode from the violence of the storm inside. No matter how placid the surface of the water may seem, make no mistake that the hurricane below is raging.

The war between these two factions, the darkness and the light, is unending and it is utterly exhausting. Which brings me to my next point:

When I say, “I’m tired,” I don’t just mean I need a nap.

If you ask me how I’m doing and I say, “I’m tired,” it’s not that I haven’t gotten enough sleep (although that is often a contributing factor). What I really mean is that I am exhausted from fighting. It takes everything I have to pull myself out of a bad “episode” of depression and right the ship. It takes an ungodly amount of energy just to continue functioning as an adult, to put my mask on and pretend that I am okay for the outside world, and to cling to the cliff’s edge of hope.

When the battle drags on so long I feel like I am completely spent, that my reserve tanks are empty, the despair I feel is crushing. I find myself asking, “Is it always going to be this hard? Because if it is, I don’t know if I can take it.” If you spent that much time in emotional agony, you’d start looking for a way out, too.

So when I tell you “I’m so tired,” don’t tell me I need to get some sleep (even though you’re probably right); tell me I’m doing a great job. Tell me that I’m strong and I’m a fighter and it won’t feel this bad forever. Remind me that it will pass and I’ll feel good again. I’ll feel like myself again.

Anxiety undermines my self-esteem and distorts my sense of reality.

Anxiety has a funny way of latching on to a single thing and blowing it out of proportion. It can take a small, thoughtless comment that I made and turn it into, “I am a terrible person; they must absolutely hate me.” Anxiety is a distorted lens through which I see the world — it changes what I think other people think of me, usually for the worse.

For example, Anxiety (it helps me to distance myself by naming it in the third person) planted the seed in my head once that my stepmom — your wonderful, hilarious, big-hearted wife — thinks that I am selfish. I don’t know where this came from or why it won’t shake loose. Rationally, I know it’s not true. She and I have a truly special relationship that I’m very proud of. But there is always this nagging insecurity in the back of my mind.

It’s like this with almost everyone, in one way or another. The anxiety is always trying to convince me that my boss thinks I’m lazy, my best friend thinks I’m obnoxious, my dad thinks I’m pathetic, and so on and so on. Anxiety is a real dick.

Clearly, I know I’m not perfect. I’m doing the best I can to make the people I care about happy. Sometimes I screw up, miss the mark, lose track of a birthday or forget to buy a gift. It doesn’t mean I love my loved ones any less.

I try not to beat myself up about these things, but it hurts to walk around with the moniker “space cadet” etched into my skin like a tattoo. It doesn’t feel good to be “that girl.” Labeling me in that way feels like a judgment of my character. It sets me apart from other people like it’s a problem unique to me and no one else is as air-headed or careless as I am, which just isn’t true. Please try to be patient with me. Encourage me when I speak from a place of insecurity and forgive me when I am forgetful.

I don’t actually want to kill myself.

This one is important. I want to make it absolutely clear that I (that is, the real me) do not want to kill myself. I just don’t want to be in pain anymore. I’m so tired of fighting that death seems like a sweet release.

On my darkest days, I find myself wishing for a brain aneurysm — something quick and painless and not-my-fault so I just don’t have to do this anymore because I’m so goddamn tired of the roller coaster.

I need you to know that I don’t really want to leave you, to hurt you, or to hurt all the people I love and give up the wonderful life I have. I only want a break from the pain and struggle.

I have really good days too (with a caveat).

Please don’t think that my life is one constant stream of unending sadness and pain. I have so much joy and laughter and love in my life and I don’t take it for granted for a second.

I have amazing friends that often have me in tears with laughter, friends I can be completely honest and candid with when I am having a bad day or week. Many of them have the same struggles that I do and it is a great comfort to me to have people who really get it that I can commiserate with.

I have an incredible extended family that has welcomed me like one of their own daughters when I had nowhere else to turn. They have opened their homes and their hearts to me and for that, I am eternally grateful. They are the most generous, selfless, loving people I have ever known.

I have a career that I am deeply proud of and passionate about. My job is fulfilling and fun and purpose-driven and my colleagues are wonderful and supportive and kind. I am good at my job and I am appreciated for it. Most importantly, I feel supported, even when I need to take the occasional “mental health day”.

And now I even have a beautiful little house where it’s quiet and private and safe. I finally have a place I can come home to and relax my defenses, take off my mask, and just be. There is no one to answer to but myself, no one to have to perform for when I don’t have the energy, no one but me and my sweet, silly cat.

I am insufferably lucky and I am so, so thankful for that.

But even when I am feeling happy, or relaxed, or unusually “on top of things”, the anxiety will not ever let me completely rest. There is always at least one very tiny voice in the back of my mind reminding me that this could end at any moment. That happiness and peace are fleeting and that even when a battle is won, the war is never over. This is a fight I will face over and over for the rest of my life.

Remember: Listen, believe me, and be kind.

Please remember that you only have one daughter and she is out here fighting for her life every day. She doesn’t have a mother anymore to tell her she’s beautiful and smart and precious so she has to do it herself and some days that’s a lot harder to do than others. Some days I just don’t have the “emotional bandwidth”.

All I want in the world is to feel like somebody is listening to me and believing me when I talk about what it’s like to live inside my head. I need to be able to trust you to have my back, to protect me from those who don’t understand what I’m going through, even when you consider those people friends and family. I need you to recognize when I’m struggling and not dismiss what I’m feeling and going through. No one’s mental health was ever made worse by a loved one choosing support over silence, acceptance over judgment.

Remember that every time you speak, you have a choice between being right and being kind and, nine times out of ten, when you choose right over kind, you wind up being neither.

I love you and I know you love me. We’re all just taking this thing one day at a time and trying to be better once we know better. It’s going to be okay. I just need you to remind me of that, too, and remind me that I have already survived 100% of my hardest days — an impressive track record. I need you to tell me it’s going to get better. I need you there with me.

With all the love in my heart,

Ry

If you or someone you love is struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts, don’t hesitate. Get help. There are options available to help you cope and support those who are struggling. You can call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at any time to speak to someone and get support or even chat with someone online. For confidential support available 24/7 for everyone in the United States, call 1–800–273–8255 or visit https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/. You are not alone.