Depression – I Want My Happy Back

Dear World,

I feel like I’m in the lowest of lows these past few months, if not a year.

It has been over a year since I wrote.

We have all had a tough year. Add depression to the mix, and the last 15 months have been a living nightmare.

It started in March 2020. My mom passed away suddenly. I have not even, to this very day, truly mourned the loss of her because of everything else going on in my life. I cannot even write about her death. I know it would open a floodgate of tears and sadness that I know I would not be able to handle mentally. So, I’ve been silent. I am suffering in silence. I’ve been trying, with great effort, to keep my mind off it.

I decided to have my kitchen renovated last summer. Unfortunately, I hired the wrong company and got scammed of over $18,000. Because of this, I wrote on every social media site about this company. I wrote lengthy letters to the BBB, Florida Attorney General, and Department of Business and Professional Regulations. I took hundreds of pictures of the horrible mess of a kitchen, so I had proof. I attached these pictures, painstakingly, to every one of my complaints. I attached the hundreds of text messages written between the owner of the renovation company and me. This ordeal has sucked up hundreds of hours of my time. I hated myself for being sucked into this woman’s scam. I have only myself to blame and feel like a complete idiot. To date, almost one year later, the case is still ongoing.

It cost me another $13,000 to fix the shoddy job done on my kitchen.

I have had some bitter family disputes (mostly with my brother) regarding my mother’s estate. My brother has been quite heartless since he married his wife over four decades ago. She has him wrapped around her finger, and he bows down to her and no one else. Sadly, over the years, our relationship has gotten to the point of no love lost. This was before my mother passed. Now? I can’t bear thinking of him. He has let me down. In the last few years of my mother’s life, he let her down many times. She was the kind of person never to mention the let-downs to him, but to others, we heard.

And then there is my son. A 27 ½-year-old man-boy is all I have left. Our relationship is horrible, and it is killing me over the last few months.

I decided to write today because yesterday I was totally depressed. So depressed, I posted it on Facebook: “Depression Sucks!” is all I wrote. I don’t have many friends on Facebook, but I must admit, I’m totally shocked only five or six responded. No family. No Close friends. Former co-workers really stepped up – that surprised me. I couldn’t leave the post to just “depression sucks” I replied to one person about the difference between sadness/grief and depression. (She lost her husband and mother recently). She is THE only person who asked what she could do. She’s 1500 miles away! Unfortunately, there is nothing she can do being so far away. If she lived near me, I would have asked for a visit, a hug. I haven’t seen her in more than 20 years, so lucky for her; she didn’t have to help. But the very idea that she asked that question when NO ONE else ever, ever does means the World to me. The World.

She asked me if my son could help. And therein lies my biggest trigger for deep depressive episodes: my son.

It tears me apart that I even have to write that. To write that I cannot depend on my son for support. To write that he can be the biggest trigger for falling into a deep depression.

He’s a smart man who could make a significant contribution to society and me if he just wasn’t so single-minded. Instead, basketball and working out are all he is focused on.

He has lived through all my ups and downs in life. For the majority of his life, I have managed to keep my depression hidden from him. The last ten years, not so much. I knew he was grown up enough to understand my feelings, so I felt a bit of a relief to be myself. But, of course, I didn’t do so overnight. But as life kept hitting me with some punches over the last twelve years, I really started to deteriorate mentally.

My boy can be a very sweet, loving, compassionate human. He has always “felt” for the underdogs in school, etc. This is what has surprised me the most about him. I have not seen any compassion or empathy from him personally. I have tried over the years to convince him to educate himself on depression. Yes, for my sake, but also for anyone he should meet up with in the future who has depression. He has not shown any understanding of the symptoms or their physical and emotional effects on me.

At first, I thought he was just in a “me, me stage,” but come to find out, he has shown great compassion to my aunt (his godmother) during her plight with cancer diagnoses and treatment. He makes It a point to visit her quite often. Bearing small gifts and a smile. He never smiles when he is around me. He never bears small gifts that show he was possibly thinking of me and what I am going through daily, weekly, yearly!! I have never received compassion or empathy from him.

Whenever I think about this lack of behavior, I blame myself. I feel like I didn’t teach him about compassion or empathy, love, and what a smile can do. Please and thank you are rare from him (to me). The more I think about him, the more depressed I become. I dream about him a lot lately because of this. My mind just spins around about this when I am awake. These last few months, I have tried just to sleep this feeling off, but it’s not working. I am sleeping more – close to 20 hours a day, but nothing is wearing off. I sure love to sleep.

I know love is unconditional, especially between mother and child. I will never not love him, but I am so disappointed in his behavior towards me. I’ve pointed it out many times. I’ve written, talked, texted, emailed. Nothing gets through.

He never apologizes for the things he says or does or does not do that is hurtful or just plain wrong. He is totally disrespectful to me. He embarrasses me in public, humiliates me in front of others and when we are alone. He thinks he is always right. He thinks his memory serves him correctly. Everything is contradicted in conversations between us. He never even looks me in the eye anymore. His face is looking down on his phone – even on Mother’s Day this year, I have never seen him look at the phone so much. He had it on his knee! I have never seen that from him. I never say anything about the phone. But that really depressed me. He was not focused on Mother’s Day but on whatever his phone may bleep. Out of nowhere, he just says some piece of news (some horse that was drugged for a race, etc.). It seems to me he just does not want to be with me. That I am not interesting. That there is something better for him to pay attention to. It’s heartbreaking. It breaks my heart into millions of pieces.

I could write thousands and thousands of words about my relationship with my son (or rather non-relationship). But, just writing these few words, I’ve been crying the entire time. It’s exhausting – crying is exhausting.

Dear Basketball and Kobe

Part 2

In my last entry, I wrote about basketball, Kobe Bryant, and memories of my son playing basketball. Nothing in the entry referenced the connection to my depression. This entry explains my heartache and anxiety associated with the sport.

When I realized the seriousness of Elliott, my son, wanting to play professionally, my biggest fear was that it wouldn’t happen. At 5’11, 180 lbs (all muscle), he was up for some pretty stiff competition. Although he is fast on his feet, driven with the Mamba Mentality of Kobe Bryant and extremely dedicated, I worried that his height and also the fact that he did not make the high school or university basketball team would be the most significant obstacles on or lacking on his resume.

Elliott trained so hard, on and off the court, to make basketball a career. His entire life has revolved around the game. Yet, I knew he was at a bit of a disadvantage because of his height. Height can significantly influence success in sports. According to the Complete Idiots Guide to Basketball (Walt Frazier and Alex Sachare, 1998), all players are often thought to have an advantage because their shots have less distance to travel to the basket, they start closer to the rebound, and their ability to reach higher in the air yields a better chance of blocking shorter players.

The average height of an NBA player is 6’7”. There is an 8-inch difference between this average and Elliott’s height. I became obsessed with height when Elliott began investing a lot of time, money, and energy into fulfilling his dream after college. I knew that mentally nothing was going to get in the way of Elliott’s success. Although there is nothing that I can do about his height, the only thing that was in my power was to give him 100% of my support. My son never mentions anything about his height. I have never heard him complain about it. Never. For me, it is a whole different scenario. In my head, lack of height is what I know will prevent him from moving forward. That really hurts my heart. I want him to succeed as badly as he does.

Although he is fine with where he is currently, there is nothing that would make his life more complete than playing overseas (or in the U.S.) professionally. As mentioned in my previous blog, Elliott is on a semi-pro team in Flordia, and had the opportunity to compete in China and has had a few leads since China. I want more for him. I want bigger and better for him (no pun intended).

There is nothing worse than someone with depression worrying about their child’s success in something they are so passionate about. It keeps me up at night. It makes me cry, each day, that he is not where he wants to be. And I can’t do a thing about it!

On to something else that has hurt my heart is Kobe Bryant’s death. I will never forget where I was when I heard about it. When I first read the breaking news, I thought it was a joke. I really thought TMZ was pulling a fast one. Over the next few hours, I realized it there was nothing more real.

I have never cried about the death of someone I don’t personally know. Celebrities have passed, and I felt terrible. I may play their music or watch their movies a few times, but none has sent me into such a depression. I saw all the mourners pouring onto the Staples Center, LA, and around the world, but I felt they didn’t admire him as much as I did. I don’t even think my son felt as horrible as I did. It put me into such a state of depression. I took time off from work. I couldn’t stop watching specials and interviews regarding Kobe Bryant’s legacy on and off the court. I bought every magazine with Kobe on the cover. I’ve saved them all. I cannot explain the severity of the mental anguish I went through.

It was just three days after Kobe’s death, that my son showed me that he understood what pain I may be going through. He never helps me with the depression side of things. Anxiety attacks, when he is around, he helps me get through, but I have never felt his compassion, empathy, or understanding of my diagnosis. On this particular day, Elliott sent me a beautiful bouquet of flowers. They were all purple and yellow. He got me, finally! I don’t know why this is the only time in his life that he showed sympathy for my depression. It has bothered me every day since he was made aware of my depression, that he refuses to acknowledge or help me through my depression. He has no idea what that small gesture of sending flowers did for me. It helped me through an extremely difficult time. If I could feel that support from him more often, I think depression would be more bearable.

He has been aware of my diagnoses for at least twenty years and in those twenty years, I have been gifted his support once. It is this one gesture that made me realize, even more, how much I would appreciate his support. Granted, children are not supposed to take care of their Mom/Dad, but I know how much of a difference it made when I supported my Mom in her depressive episodes. Through my setting this example, one would think he would do the same. I have never asked him for help during a depressive crisis. I shouldn’t have to. I have asked him to educate himself on depression, but it seems he hasn’t. That hurts my heart. The flowers, although long gone, are my only source of his comfort as far as this disease is concerned. Sad. Am I expecting too much?

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Why? This question further made my depression worse. Why was I reacting to Kobe’s death in such a way? Why did I feel such a strong connection to him? My life in the following months became hazed over in purple and yellow.

The unnecessary tragedy. The loss of Kobe’s beautiful daughter. The beautiful love story between Vanessa (his wife) and their children. His dedication to helping others in need. Although Kobe retired years earlier, basketball lost a legend. The world lost a man who cared about the plight of others and made a difference in many people’s lives.

As I write this, more than six months after the passing of Kobe, his daughter, Gianna, and the other seven lives taken too soon, I cry.

This brings me to my final thought about basketball, Kobe, and my son. I have terrible anxiety over flying and driving. When my son told me about winning the U.S. tournament and would be competing in the China Jump 10 competition, my second thought is “He has to travel. Travel internationally!” I fretted over that prospect until the day he returned home – well over four months. I experienced four months of non-stop anxiety.

And then Kobe dies, less than six months later, dying a mere 26 minutes after take-off!

My take away: I want everything (and more) my son, Elliott, wants. I always need him to be safe. I idolized Kobe Bryant and didn’t even realize it until his death. Sympathetic gestures go a long way. I need emotional support from the one that matters most, my son.

God bless Elliott and Kobe, my basketball heroes.

Dear Depression

I hate it when you enter my brain when I sleep. You do it all the time, and I cannot stand it! From out of an almost-decent sleep, I wake up in the morning totally depressed. Sometimes, I can feel you have invaded my head-space before I am fully awake. There is that burning feeling in my eyes as if I had been crying for days. My head feels so heavy I cannot even get it off the pillow. My body feels weighed down; sore. Depression? When you do this on my day off from work, I know you are there, in my almost-unconscious state, because I have slept and slept and slept. It’s not until 1 or 2 pm until my conscious state realizes you’ve crept in overnight and you’ve wasted another day of my life. If you’ve snuck up on me on a work eve, it’s even worse. You did this to me this morning, and I hate you for it!

Today was my first day of a two-week work assignment, and there you are, fresh off your demonic spell on me, first thing in the morning! You could have stayed away from me for a mere two weeks. Nope, that’s not in your plans for me. You just crave ruining anything and everything for me. You know I’ll fight back with the drugs, right mindset and time. You get the advantage when you strike at night. I woke up this morning and dreaded the idea of taking a shower – of standing in the shower. I almost didn’t even take one. I didn’t care what I wore – you know how mad that makes me! First impressions are everything. I ended up wearing black pants that are way too tight. A chose a black shirt that is so unbecoming it made me wonder why I even own it. Black shoes. Even a black hairpiece! Make-up? I could have cared less. I only applied it because it afforded me the opportunity to plop myself down on a chair at my dressing table. I look like shit, and I feel like shit.

From the moment I woke up all I’ve wanted to do is cry and I can’t. I have to fake some happy demeanor all day long. Fake that I am glad to greet new people and be at work. Fake a smile. Pretending that I am not depressed is the most exhausting task I go through when dealing with depression in a public environment, and that’s probably why you’ve done this to me. If I never had to work a day in my life again, I’d be happy (yet I love to work). If I never saw a single person again in my life, I’d be grateful (yet I love helping people). On this day, I feel like want to be by myself and be myself – in a never-ending emotional state of sadness. That is how you make me feel, and it is a horrible way to go through life.

I am at work, on a mandatory lunch break. I hate lunchbreaks. Eating lunch makes me sleepy on a good day, but when a severe depressive episode hits me, like this one, indulging on even a tiny nibble will make me want to curl up on the couch that sits across this room and sleep the rest of my day away. I am so tired – because of you, Depression! I want to go home!!!! I certainly do not want to sit around for the next hour, waiting for it to pass, so that I can go back to this tedious job with a bunch of annoying people kissing the public’s a–. I have had 36 oz cup of tea, and now I am on a 36 oz cup of Starbucks Plus coffee (and I hardly ever drink coffee)! Nothing helps the exhaustion that comes from depression, so I don’t know why I am even drinking this gross stuff. Something to do with my hands, I suppose. The movement keeps my eyelids from drooping over my eyeballs!!

I would like to smile. I would like to be sociable. It’s just not in the cards for today.

Nothing physical or emotional transpired between going to bed last night and waking up this morning to make me feel this depressed. Granted, I am always depressed, but some days are better than others. Yesterday, I felt alive, today I’m dead. It is all your fault, Depression! Great job!!!

I hate you, Depression! I hate you and what you do to me!

p.s. you’re even messing with my ability to compose a well-written letter to you and with my feelings in not caring how this turns out! You get it! Other’s may not. Now, get the hell out of my head and body! Please. I beg you.

Dear My Little Man

I have been thinking about you non-stop for the last 24 hours because I posted a blog about you yesterday. I was scared to hit the enter button because it was such a private matter between you and me, but I thought it would bring me some closure to your passing. So far, it hasn’t, it has brought me only more sorrow.

I miss you, little guy. I never realized what you brought to my life. I took you for granted and I’m sorry about that.

I know you loved me and I know you know I loved you.

You were a bit of a difficult dog, behavior wise, but I accepted that. Not many others did. There were many things we could not do because of your rambunctiousness, but we still had a good time. We made the best of the situation. I think you made me become an introvert when I had always been an extrovert. We did things where you could be outside, but where we wouldn’t encounter a lot of dogs or people. I was a bit scared you would hurt other dogs/people, yet you were so sweet, loving, and timid around me. When others would come to the house, you were a changed doggie: excited and uncooperative; same in public places. I blame myself for that because I did not have a lot of visitors, nor did we go out a lot, consistently. So, ultimately, I guess I didn’t give you proper socialization skills and training.

My Little Man, you brought me such peace in my life. You gave me love during my bouts of depression when no one else would. That’s a huge thing! I remember so many times I would be sitting on the couch, lying in bed, sitting in a chair outside or standing in the kitchen at the counter and out of no where I would be crying or have an anxiety attack, and you would walk up to my side and be there. If you could reach my face, you would lick away the tears. If I were standing at the counter, you would jump up, look at me with a tilt in your head suggesting a question of “what can I do”? Reminding me to “breathe”. Telling me you were there for me to take my mind off things and play football with you! THESE were the only times you stood up on the counter! Such a good man!

I miss you, buddy!

Until We Meet Again At The Rainbow Bridge

It feels like yesterday that I brought my rescue puppy to his fur-ever home. But it was eight years, three months ago. It feels like minutes ago when he passed, but it was months ago on May 30^th, 2019, at 7:48 a.m. That’s when my world turned upside-down and inside out. The grief was akin to a torrential downpour that came from nowhere; quite similar to Southwest Florida’s summer rains. The rain of utter despair didn’t end as quickly and flooded my entire being. Everything went quiet in my head except for the clouds of tears pelting down within my body, soul, and heart. I could not think The grief ruled me, just like a severe bout of depression.

His breathing was labored. I dressed hurriedly praying I could get to the animal clinic to get us more time. Not a minute later, I stood over him, in disbelief. I was frozen. Scared, hurting for him and feeling his pain in my gut, I knew this was it. It was evident that there wouldn’t be time to get help. I tried to get him up off the cool, tile floor, failing. I lifted his head less than ½” from the floor to connect the leash to his collar. The lead was Ioose in my hand, and as I got to the stand position, his head dropped to the floor. To this day, I can hear this happening in my head. It’s driving me crazy. I hear that sound, head to the floor, inside my head, daily and it sounds like a massive clap of thunder. It seemed inhumane. It certainly wasn’t intentional. I had no idea that in those few minutes how lifeless his head (and body) had become. I try and remind myself his head was less than a 1/2th inch from the floor and it couldn’t have possibly hurt, but convincing myself this is a whole different thing. The guilt will not go away as I am reminded of it every day, especially as I fall to sleep at night.

My Little Man (crazy name, right?) was too heavy for me to pick up and bring to the car. Sixty plus pounds of muscle, hair, and a huge heart, along with a monster inside, (stomach cancer) killing him! I succumbed to the inevitable, just like he was and lay down with him. Petting, and saying over and over and over, “I love you.” I stroked that soft, wavy hair between his ears. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to let him know it was okay. Okay to end the pain. Okay to cross over the Rainbow Bridge. “I’m here, my buddy, and I won’t leave your side.” (or rather, I can’t leave your side).

It’s odd, one hears about humans and their near-death experiences. Some say their whole life flashes before them. That is what happened to me in less than a moment. I saw our entire life together. I also had a million regrets that flashed by.

Just two days earlier, I had found out he had inoperable stomach cancer, which had spread all over his body. The vet said My Little Man, and I had time. In fact, he said we had a couple of weeks. We went home with a prescription of Tramadol (pain killer) and, per the vet’s recommendation, I bought CBD oil to help him through what time he had left. We took it easy for the rest of that day. I texted my son the horrible news, “Oh, Momma! I’m so sorry.”, he texts.

I texted my one and only friend. She writes: “Oh, my God…what can I do for you? “Oh, no…I am so sorry”. “I am here if you need to talk.”

Throughout the rest of that day, I made a bucket list for My Little Man’s last weeks. We would go to his favorite swimming spots: Bird Key Park, Ken Thompson Park, Bayfront Park. We would swim until his paws wrinkled. We would go to O’Leary’s, Arlington Park. I would allow him to eat anything he wanted. He would sleep in my bed – no matter how dirty or smelly he might be.

I only got the chance to do one: My best buddy slept in my bed. He couldn’t get up in it without help. We snuggled. I held his paw. I practically slept on top of him! He was always so warm and soft; this night was no different. His breathing always lulled me to sleep. This nights’ breathing was labored and lull me to sleep; it didn’t. One night in my bed! All the things on our bucket list and that’s all I got! One bluddy night!

At dusk the following evening, My Little Man had the best time in a very, very long time. Due to a bout of severe depression that had (and continues ) lasted months, I hadn’t been as attentive or active as I should have been with Little Man. But, this devoted guy showed me the real power of unconditional love, devotion, and the meaning of precious time. HE SHOWED ME! My Little Man gave me one last gift, and without realizing, I reciprocated. Despite the lethargy that comes along with depression and the increase of pain in my heart since he was diagnosed, I gave him every last bit of energy I had on this night.

The blue sky, free of clouds, comforted us in our pain. Strangely, it wasn’t sweltering hot outside like a usual May evening. The soft breeze energized our souls. My guy wanted to play. My Little Man spotted his favorite toy: a worn-out football with a rope at the end. It had been lying there for weeks without being disturbed by teeth, paw, or human hand. A sign I should have caught onto weeks before. He grabbed his toy between this teeth and attempted to make it squeak. He loved all things squeaky! Years ago it had lost is sound. He brought it over to where I was sitting, a few paw steps away, and gave me that “look.” The look that said, “let’s play.” Fearful of overexerting him, I gently threw it a couple of times at his feet. He slowly went for it and brought it back to me, but not before he gave it his customary shakey-shakey. I threw again, further this time. He ran, retrieved, and placed it in my hand. He seemed invigorated with each toss. So, I threw it as far as I could. Tail wagging, he burst off the deck and chased after it like there was no tomorrow (turns out there wasn’t much of a tomorrow for him). He flew back to me, tail wagging, the force of the wind blowing his long black hair back. I could see something in his eyes I hadn’t seen in a long time; complete joy. I had the same feeling inside. Again and again, I threw it as far as I could. He didn’t want to stop playing, and no matter how tired I became, I threw and threw and threw.

All good things come to an end. Little Man played with such vigor for well over twenty minutes, stopping to lap up ice water from his bowl with the same enthusiasm as fetching his ball. Finally, exhaustion took over him and “down” he went. He chose a spot that gave him a 180° view of his backyard kingdom and a glimpse of me. He calmy watched the butterflies nearby, followed the birds with his eyes — nature at its best. The mockingbirds were beginning to take over the silence, as the sun slowly made its descent. Every once in awhile, he would turn his head back to me (to see if I was still there?). His coat shone so brightly, lit up by the rays of the setting sun.

I grabbed my camera to take a picture of this majestic animal I so loved and appreciated. Just before I hit the button, he turned around to look at me, without a prompt from me. At that moment, I thought I had just taken the most beautiful picture of him. He turned away and looked out towards the yard, and the shutter clicked again. He looked as graceful and proud as a lion watching over his pride from his throne. I look back on these pictures with a heavy heart. I can see in his eyes his pain. I see sadness. They aren’t as wide-eyed and bright as they once were.

Had I looked in his eyes for signs of “something” before this night, I may have been able to save him. How long had the pain been there? When did it start to take a toll on him? Why hadn’t he cried, whimpered, or somehow let me know he was in pain? Most overwhelming for me, why didn’t I do something earlier? I could have. I saw a change in his eating habits, but I thought it was due to a change in food (which I immediately threw out). I saw a change in his energy level, and I did nothing. Does depression come with denial, ignorance, and selfishness too? No matter what the answer to my last question, I blame myself for his death. This is the most overwhelming feeling I have ever experienced. I don’t have words to explain how to overcome I am with my guilt of not taking care of him properly. No one knows how this whole thing transpired because I never told anyone of the subtle changes in My Little Man. I was too wrapped up with the hopelessness of my own life. I was so damned overcome from this bout of depression that the last few months was nothing but sleep, total exhaustion during waking hours, I didn’t see anything around me. Not even my best buddy was immune to my symptoms.

“I feel for you. I know it’s tough. He was a great pup. He grew on me the last couple of years.” “You’ll get through it Mom it’s the only option.” This was my son’s text.

I miss my friend.

Sidenote: This took me more than three months to write. Tears overwhelmed me, sentence after sentence, and I had to let the tears take over and leave my writing. Three months and I still think of our life together every day and night. My only comfort is that we will meet again at the Rainbow Bridge, and I literally cannot wait to wrap my soul around him again.

Dear Dad

June 16, 2019

Dear Dad,

June 21, 2009, Father’s Day, you passed away and left a void in all our hearts. As you can imagine, the people you left behind all handled it in different ways. This letter isn’t about them; it’s about me and how your death has impacted me.

I have found only one thing because of and since your passing, that has positively impacted me: my motivation to write. We shared the love of writing. You enjoyed my words on paper. In one instance you reached out during an estranged period of our relationship of two-plus years due to a letter I had sent Elliott over my concern for his well-being and my undying, unconditional love for him. That was how profound my words were: father reaches out to daughter and not just any daughter – me! Even though we had our share of ups and downs, you read, you understood, and reached out to me because of my written words.

My depression in the last couple of years is the worst of my life. Although you didn’t suffer from depression, you understood its vicious assaults on my physical, emotional, and social well-being. Thirty-six years ago, you were the one that suggested I may have this debilitating disease and to seek out professional diagnosis. Almost immediately, I was prescribed Zoloft, and life became better.

With no internet back then, I accepted the diagnosis and prescription and was not inclined to research what depression was. Feeling better, I continued with life. Over the next decade, I was able to stop and start the prescription. Months would go by where I found myself “myself,” without it. Looking back on it now, it seems that my depressive episodes were mainly attributed to Seasonal Affective Disorder. I learned how to cope with these depressive episodes and became proactive in therapy.

Today, as well as in the past couple of years, I have eagerly sought out and received professional help to deal with my depression. What I have been experiencing lately, is not Seasonal Affective Disorder.

I have needed you so badly in the past couple of years; it is beyond words. I need someone who gets me – to understand how horrible this depression is. I need someone who will encourage (even make) me seek further help. I need someone to tell me the doctor I am working with isn’t “working.” I need someone to tell me what to do and make me do it.

I need you today, yesterday and in the last couple of years. Always.

I need someone to understand and accept my depression.

I need compassion.

I need someone to talk to that doesn’t make me feel this is something “that will pass,” or to tell me “get over it.”

I’m a bit confused, since your passing, if you really loved me as a daughter (or at all). Since your passing, I have heard otherwise. Thus, I need you to tell me the truth. Maybe knowing the truth will help me heal and move forward. Even if you didn’t love me, Dad, I love you!

I miss you.

I need you.

I don’t just need you for your help in advising me on my depression; I just need you!

Ride on, Dad. Hope you are eating lots of watermelons.

On this Father’s Day, I send you Love, Kisses, and Hugs………..

This blog’s for you!