When I was a kid, I was really, really shy. So shy that I whispered my order to my mom in restaurants until I was about 13. So shy that I vividly recall sitting in my high school history class debating with myself about whether I should get up and sharpen my pencil because it would cause people to look at me. So shy that I still feel the embarassment of my biology class where the teacher used to have us read aloud from the book, and the teacher picked me to read aloud because it "looked like I was hiding." (I was.) Then he decided to let the person who read aloud last pick the next reader. Somehow, it became a "thing" in my class for everyone to pick me. So I read a page, picked someone else, and they picked me back. I was mortified - day after day - week after week. (Looking back, I have no idea why we spent so much time reading aloud in biology class.)
I'm still shy, but less so. Once I get to know someone, I'm pretty loud and opinionated and also pretty silly. Dancing around and singing and inserting people's names into songs is my forte. When I know people well, I'm not the slightest bit shy about how I'm feeling. I couldn't hide it if I wanted to.
So imagine my surprise when my mother asks me last week if I was depressed. Not just depressed - if I was going to hurt myself. If I would tell her. Or, if I wouldn't, if my husband would call and tell her. She said she needed to ask because I'd been really sad lately. I was pissed! Strike that - I'm still pissed! I had a reason for acting sad - when I walked into her house for the first time in a month, she'd had an email about my sister's pregnancy sitting by my place at the table where she knew I'd see it as soon as I got home. It was pretty detailed. My sister is due in five weeks, she has a birth plan, she's gone to birthing classes, she was talking about lactation consultants. All things that, yes, I'd like to read. But deliver it with some gentleness. Warn me. Offer it. Don't just set it in a place where I'll see it instantly upon walking in the door. Where I'll think, "oh what is this interesting email my mom set out for me?" and then let my reality SMACK me in the face again. Yeah, it still stings.
Now, I understand that some people are good at disguising their pain and hiding their darker intentions. That is not me. And furthermore, there's a world of difference between being suicidal and grieving the loss of three pregnancies in one year, and I'm resentful that my mother couldn't tell the difference. She knows me better than that.
I'm entitled to be sad. Maybe you folks think I'm depressed too because I blog to work through things, so you're mostly reading the sad stuff. But I think I do a pretty good job of recognizing what I feel and why. I'm doing well. And frankly, I just want my loved ones to give me some fucking credit for it.
