By: Tehilla Vanfossen
It runs in my family. But depression is a sneaky disease and it did its insidious work without anyone putting a name to it.
As I was growing up, no one said that my father was depressed — instead, he was ‘moody.’ My grandmother, who couldn’t pull herself together long enough to make dinner, was described as ‘eccentric.’
But clinically depressed? Not in my family, thank you very much.
By the time I reached adulthood, I was forcing my way through most days in a blur of emotional pain. Negative thoughts constantly pounded me: I was worthless — lazy and stupid — with no redeeming qualities. I didn’t expect anyone to like me — I didn’t even like myself. I never seriously considered suicide, but if I’d had a huge cosmic eraser, I would have used it on myself.
This article first appeared Aish.com . To continue reading, Click here