Amy Chan | It which must not be named

Chances Are | We have to admit depression

By Amy Chan 11/29/16 10:21pm

While everyone was buying sweaters 50-percent off at their local mall this weekend and eating turkey sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner, my parents and I were having our first honest talk about depression.

I wasn’t depressed until I came to Penn, so I never had to tell anyone about it until now.

It all started with an argument between my mom and me over whether to go to Olive Garden. I had thoughtlessly rattled off, “Mom, I haven’t been there in a while,” and my mother had immediately jumped up, saying “Then let’s go!” I immediately flip-flopped and said that Mom never cooked for me anymore. My mother rightfully responded with a lot of anger and began to air out all her grievances built up over the past year. To get her off my back, I shouted, “Mom, why do you always have to start so much drama with me when I come home?! I’m depressed to the point of being suicidal at school, and I just want to be happy when I’m with my family!”

I surprised myself with how easily the words came out, just like another fact one might state about oneself, such as, “Hello, my name is Amy. I like to read, I am twenty-one years old and I am depressed.” I had said it solely to relieve myself of my mother’s anger, but it was also the first time I had ever said the words out loud with conviction.

I had gone to therapists at CAPS before, told them “I think I am depressed,” told them “well, I might be depressed,” but I had never said it so matter-of-factly — “I am depressed.” The statement had never rung so true.

My parents’ reactions surprised me even more than my own cold acknowledgement. My mother, who I have never seen cry for me, began to break down in tears. My father, who had been present for the whole debacle, also began to sob and wipe his face. I was so shocked that I stopped crying — I had been hiccupping trying to hold it in before.

My mother said, “Mimi, I am sorry. I know sometimes I am a bad mother, but no matter how anyone treats you, you should always take care of yourself and keep trying to live.”

My dad said, “How could you say that? You are so young. Think of what it would do to me and your ma if you weren’t here.”

Their reaction had done more for me than talking to anybody else had. I had expected them to disregard what I had said, to not take me seriously, and that’s why I had never told them about this before. Instead, they had shown me that I was so loved and that there were people fighting to keep me on this earth.

I was afraid to admit I was depressed because I thought that my problem wasn’t serious and would be dismissed by those around me. But I know now that it was just the opposite.

I suspect a lot of other people also feel the same way I did. Many did not suspect that Madison Holleran or Olivia Kong was struggling with depression. Their lives seemed perfectly normal, or at least as close as can be. They weren’t exceptions. I have spoken to many friends, and one of my closest told me that she thinks everyone struggles with it at Penn at some point, and that she has wanted to kill herself before.

I don’t blame Penn the institution for the abundance of depression here. From what I’ve seen, the hyper-competitive atmosphere and the stigma with seeking help are the biggest enablers of it.

There are so many resources on campus for support, but we hardly use them. When I once ran into a friend on the way to CAPS and told her where I was going, she “awwed” as if something was incredibly wrong. As if we should only go to CAPS for the most dire situations, when we are literally about to climb on the ledge.

CAPS, talking to a friend, seeking help — these things don’t have to be for the most severe cases. In fact, by the time the problem has grown so serious, seeking help often comes too late. If, today, you are feeling more than a little down, disheartened by the work or the isolation, tell someone now. Don’t wait until the day when you can’t get out of bed, like I did. Stop mental illness early. Maybe then it won’t ruin your next Thanksgiving like it did mine.