Comfort and sadness

My friend used to be depressed. Her older brother used to be depressed. Her dad used to be depressed and he didn’t make it.

She said she was lucky. She was the latest person in her family to be depressed. She learned a lot from the ones before her, on how to be depressed and on how not to.

It’s not a fun thing to share but they did share the weights of depression. When she curled up in bed and couldn’t get out for days, she thought about this cursed family tradition that they all shared at some point in their lives, and it was sadly comforting.

They all went to therapy. Different ones. Her dad didn’t make it. Her brother, after her dad hung himself, tried. He made it. He made it out. When my friend was diagnosed with depression, her brother was the one who drove her to her therapist. She saw one man in her life made it and one didn’t. She had to make some choices for her own.

She also made it out. She took meds like her doctors told her to. She went to therapy like she should. She was diagnosed when she was 15. Her teenage years were spent taking medicine to “alter” her mind. During a time everyone else was trying to figure out who they were, she took meds to let go of a part of her. Ten years later she stopped going to therapy. She was no longer clinically depressed, but she no longer knew who she was now that she wasn’t that “depressed girl” anymore.

She had a family of her own now: a nice husband and four kids. She had a good life and would carry on having a good life. She had dinners with her brother often. She fell in love and laughed a lot. But sometimes when that Nirvana’s song was on

I miss the comfort in being sad
I miss the comfort in being sad
I miss the comfort in being sad

She sat in her rocking chair by the window trying to not turn her melancholy into real sadness. She thought about how happiness is fleeting and maybe sadness, sadness is eternal in her.

Wrote this quick prose for a Go Dog Go Prompt. Always a pleasure to write their prompt.