I feel better, Mom, a letter you could write
According to the WHO (World Health Organization), depression is now the leading cause of disability and morbidity worldwide. Ahead of cancer, car accidents, and even war. In other words, an incredibly large number of people are affected by this mental health issue and, as with most mental disorders, the first signs of depression often occur during teenage years or in early adulthood.
This is exactly what happened to Adele, 17, who authored this equally gut-wrenching and hope-restoring letter.
She explains in it that her depression has no clear origin, but that she started to hate her body as a preteen, struggling under the weight of the incredible social pressure put on women and girls.
She tells her mom how cutting her legs and her arms became a way for her to soothe her emotional pain, no matter how brief and destructive the relief was.
At the end of her letter, the author expresses her gratitude to her family for all the ways in which they showed her love, even though at the time she felt she didn’t deserve it and her illness constantly whispered to her that she could never be happy.
I invite you to read these words below (original letter in French here), written by a young woman who feels better (and translated into English for you). On Mother’s Day, it is also a wonderful call for you to open up to your loved ones: admitting to them that you have found yourself at the bottom of a deep, dark hole is your best chance that they will throw you a rope and you can start climbing out of there, even if you think no one will hear you screaming. Because you have evidence now.
[Adele Veilleux is 17 years old. During the past 2 years, she experienced a major depressive episode. As she had suicidal thoughts, she was forced to drop out of school and spend several weeks in a psychiatric hospital. She feels better now, and as a present to her mother for Mother’s Day, she wrote her this letter.]
Mom,
I always tell people that my depression wasn’t triggered by something specific. And when I think about it, I notice key elements as early as primary school.
I already couldn’t stand my body back then. I had a notebook in which I would write all sorts of things about how I looked. For example, I would constantly write down my weight and the measured thickness of my thighs. I would also draw versions of myself where I would have thinner arms and less body fat. In order to attain that ideal, I would often stop eating.
Mom, I need to add that no one ever insulted me at school saying I was overweight. I was the only one to call myself fat.
Since I’m addressing responsibility here, I also want to make it clear that no one else made me fall into depression. It’s not because of you, nor Dad nor Anaïs that I wanted to take my own life. I’m the only one involved in this sad story.
Do you really understand what I just wrote, Mom? You did nothing wrong. You need to stop wondering what you could have, or should have, done differently.
An insidious pain settled in me when I came back from my humanitarian trip to Cuba. While 15-year-olds dream of kissing someone or falling in love, all I wanted was to be run over by a car or fall down the stairs.
I hurt so bad inside, Mom. That’s why I started hurting my own arms and legs. By attacking my body, I managed to give my mind some relief.
That was a bit like my love/hate relationship with Instagram. Even though constantly looking at other people’s pictures eventually affected my mood, I couldn’t do without it. And when I stopped doing it, I constantly thought about it.
I’d follow models’ and celebrities’ accounts and seeing that they had what I didn’t, made me feel better. That’s crazy, right? It comforted me to see that others had what I wished I had. Or looked the way I wished I looked.
It felt good to be hurt.
A few weeks ago, I read the text messages I had sent to [the youth helpline], when I was still in school. I was surprised to see how intense I had been. I had told the person that I didn’t want to take my exam and that I was thinking of taking a lot of sleeping pills so as to never wake up again.
In retrospect, I can see why an ambulance came to pick me up an hour later, even if I was angry about it at the time.
To see your parents cry is a rare thing.
When the psychiatrist told you that I would be sent to a psychiatric hospital, you cried so hard, Mom. It hurt, because I was the reason you were crying, but I couldn’t do anything to make you feel better.
I am sorry Mom, that I upset you so much.
I was so scared of going into psychiatric care. I imagined myself in a straitjacket, in an empty room, supervised through a window.
I tried to find information about what was going to happen to me, but I couldn’t find anything. Why are mental health issues such a taboo? I remember googling “psychiatric ward”, and finding nothing.
So I expected the worst. And in the end, it’s not that bad. There were competent people there to help me.
And even though you told me again and again that one day I would be fine, that I would be happy again, I didn’t believe you. I would tell myself that you didn’t know what you were talking about, because no one in our family had ever had mental health issues.
I was surprised how you stayed by my side, Mom. I pushed you away, I pushed you away, I pushed you away. Even when I told you you were annoying, you stayed. If someone had pushed me away like this, I wouldn’t have stayed.
I can tell you now: it was heartwarming to have you close.
Dad, who spent his afternoons in the hospital. Grandma, who came all the way down from Abitibi to look after me, because you were forbidden from leaving me alone. Anaïs, who never made me feel that I was “sick” and would entertain me with her stories. All that was heartwarming, too.
If I hadn’t gotten so many signs that I was important to you, I might not be here today.
Little by little, I was able to control my dark thoughts.
You were right Mom, when you said that it would pass. Maybe you did know what you were talking about.
Today, I know that it makes you sad that I am distancing myself from you. I know that you are longing to hug me. Me, your baby who has always loved hugs.
But after being monitored for months, 24/7, I need to be alone.
It’s precisely because I feel better that I need more distance from you.
This is good news.
The dark is behind us.
What do I hope for now? I hope that I get my love for school back. Of course, we are a long way from when I had really good marks and I said I would become a doctor. But if I can just go on being happy, we’ll have won way more than diplomas… right, Mom?
Oh, and I want to make you smile before wishing you a happy Mother’s Day. Do you know what I changed as well? The accounts I follow on Instagram. I’m done with models and celebrities. Now I follow comedians. It’s way funnier! And healthier I guess.
Well, it’s time to wish it to you… Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you. And, more importantly, thank you.
Going further
- Insane's article on SHOUT, the UK crisis hotline started by the Royals
- NAMI's website (National Alliance on Mental Illness) in the US
- Insane's article on 7 doable therapist tips