Breathing For The First Time by Mary E Thompson Page A

in a highly clinical and objective way. I knew I’d have to face it one day, but it’s more difficult than I’d imagined.
    My parents don’t talk much about mom’s depression. It’s something she struggles with every day, but she’s strong and wants to fight it. When my sisters and I were younger it was harder for her. My dad always made comments about kids being tough and a part of me thought it was my fault.
    Seeing my mom as anything but perfect is hard. She was always there for us growing up. My dad and I were closer, but I know that’s because we were surrounded by women. My mom and sisters are close, always have been, but I always knew I could go to mom if I needed her.
    Dr. Stevenson tells us, “Most depressed patients don’t realize what they’re doing. Some people forget their families or just snap at random times. With depression, you never know what is going to happen or when someone will be the person you know or someone else.”
    I think back to one of those days. I was in middle school and my sisters were in high school. They had cheerleading practice after school so I came home with a friend from school. Usually mom didn’t care if a friend came with me.
    Bo was a neighbor, someone who’d been in our house more times than I could count. When we came through the front door I could tell something wasn’t right. The house was quiet, which wasn’t completely unusual, but something was off. Mom was usually in the kitchen when I got home from school, but not that day.
    Bo and I went into the kitchen and found fresh cookies on the counter. We were thrilled and dove into the cookies. After about four each we went to the living room to play video games.
    We finished up one game and were starting our next game when mom came downstairs. She was wearing her pajamas and looked like she just got out of bed. Mom started yelling at me, asking me why we ate the cookies, telling me we got crumbs all over the kitchen, and yelling about us being there playing video games.
    I was crushed. I felt like she was being unreasonable, but she wouldn’t stop. She kept screaming. She never hit us or got close to us, but we were scared. Bo ran to the door and grabbed his backpack and took off. I just stood there and listened to Mom.
    Eventually she stopped yelling and went back upstairs. When she left I cried. I was too old to be crying, but it really bothered me. I was still crying when Dad got home a little while later. I told him what happened with Mom and he went upstairs to her.
    After that she went away for a while. I didn’t realize it at the time, but Dad took her to a hospital. It was a short stay, about a week, but she needed to get out, to have a break and let the doctors balance her medication.
    I never had a friend over from school after that. In fact I tried to stay out of Mom’s way altogether. I spent most of my time in my room, where she would leave me alone. I would only bring friends over when Dad was around, or my sisters. I did everything I could to make life easy for Mom.
    When I was looking at colleges, I decided to help people like Mom. My undergrad classes were informative, but didn’t get into too many details. In grad school, I’ve learned more about what was going on with Mom and it’s been harder to take at times.
    I return to the lecture to hear Dr. Stevenson ask, “Do any of you have a particular interest in dealing with patients with depression?”
    Brooke squeezes my arm and flashes a reassuring grin at me. I raise my hand and Dr. Stevenson turns her focus to me. “Do you have anyone close to you who suffers from depression? Usually when we pick a particular mission, especially in psychology, we’re working to save a specific person.”
    I nod and tell her my mom has as long as I can remember. Dr. Stevenson’s eyes soften and tells me her best friend growing up dealt with the same. She addresses the class when she says, “Watching someone going through boughts of depression can be