“I wish you would just talk to me.”

It’s a sentence I can’t put a quantitative number on, I’ve heard it countless times over the years from my mother. In my head I am screaming, “I wish I could too.”

Typically I just meet her concerned face with a blank, glazed-over stare. I have depression and anxiety. I used to be ashamed. I’m not really anymore. I am sometimes suicidal. Not to the point of acting upon my thoughts, but I’ve certainly planned it out a million times over, down to the last detail.

There are three things that keep me here, none of which are me. They are my son, my daughter and my granddaughter.

I certainly wouldn’t do anything drastic or messy, I wouldn’t want my family to find small parts of my brain matter scattered all over my room. No, I’m most certainly the pill overdose type of death. I won’t though. I can think of several very distinct instances that I replay every time my depression grabs a hold and those thoughts resurface.

Back in 2012, a week after my grandmother on my father’s side passed away I was on my way to visit my grandfather, en route I was in a fairly bad car accident, no fault of mine, a teenager pulled out of a gas station without looking, directly in front of me causing me to t – bone his small Toyota, we both walked away with minimal injuries. Yet I will never forget the look of horror when my son walked in to my hospital room, or the way my daughter’s voice cracked as she began to sob uncontrollably on the phone.

Just recently she told someone she didn’t think she could’ve made it through the birth of her child without me. Who am I to take away her much needed support?

The recent news of a young and budding talented graduate committing suicide from my sons’ high school has weighed heavily on my mind, because it’s hard for me to fathom someone that young, with so much going for them, just starting college and a promising basketball career ahead of them, what would make them want to end it all? It just shows that mental illness has no prejudice. It doesn’t see race or age, religious belief or career, it is across the board and it is real.

It is something that cannot be ignored. I have learned to live with my demons; I dance with them on occasion. Not everyone does. If you know of someone struggling or even have the slightest feeling that someone you know or love might be depressed, reach out to them. If you don’t think you can, let someone know. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

I am medicated, I also meditate, I drink wine and I enjoy a few edibles here and there and damn anyone that has something to say about it. I am alive, I am here not only for myself but for my kids and my family and anyone else that may need or want me in their life.

Be there for someone who needs you, even if they don’t realize they do.