It’s been about twenty‑eight years since I was that depressed.
It felt as if I was a prisoner of my own thoughts. Terrorized by them.
I spent entire days sitting in the same spot by the heater, trying to solve a problem that couldn’t be solved. At least, I know that now. Back then, I didn’t want to know.
It was as if my thoughts were telling me:
you’re going to solve this problem first, before you can do anything else.
Before you can even think about anything else.
My daughter was two at the time when her father left us. On a vacation he’d met someone else, and not long after, he married her. He wanted nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with us anymore.
And I couldn’t understand that.
I couldn’t understand how someone could disown his own child.
That he would disown his own child just to have nothing to do with me anymore.
That he apparently found me so worthless.
That he apparently felt such disgust toward me.
That he apparently was willing to sacrifice the bond with his child, his own flesh and blood, for that.
I couldn’t understand it.
Not really.
But I had to.
I had to try to understand it.
Because only then—if I understood it—maybe I could fix it.
I had to.
For my child.
And for myself.
My child couldn’t grow up without a father.
And I didn’t want to become like my mother.
My parents divorced when I was eight. My father moved on cheerfully with his “new family,” and my mother was left behind, defeated, wandering for decades, searching for a new man. Needy, throwing herself into her own misfortune again and again.
More and more, I became entangled in the isolation of my own thoughts.
A loop.
A mental loop I couldn’t get out of.
The world around me had stopped existing.
For me.
In reality, it was the other way around: the world kept turning, mercilessly.
Without me.
The dishes piled up. The laundry basket overflowed. The cat had thrown up hairballs and they were still there. I had thrown up too. Some of it was on the floor next to the toilet.
My little daughter refused to eat.
The daily battle at the table had exhausted me, and I gave up.
I called a friend:
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“Go see your doctor tomorrow morning,” he said.
“Doctor, I’m so afraid I’m turning into my mother.”
“I think the two of you are opposites,” the doctor said, almost casually.
He sent me to a psychiatrist. “He can advise you on the right antidepressant.”
“You know what your problem is?” the psychiatrist said.
“You’re convinced you’re not lovable.”
He prescribed an antidepressant that was especially effective for what he called “intrusive thoughts.”
My doctor had asked me to report back to him.
“I read the information sheet and I’m afraid to take the pills,” I told him. “You can get persistent headaches from them, and you might even get more depressed.”
I already felt so awful—I couldn’t handle anything more.
Besides, by then I was doing a little better. Just the fact that the doctor had reassured me that I wasn’t like my mother helped.
And what the psychiatrist said—that I didn’t feel lovable—gave me some awareness. Some explanation.
I agreed with my doctor that I would try the medication if I relapsed.
That year, I celebrated New Year’s Eve with a friend.
She stayed over. In Amsterdam, New Year’s nights felt unsafe for a woman alone. The streets were full of people, drunk, setting off fireworks.
We’d had a pretty nice evening. TV, talking, joking, laughing, snacks.
But when the clock struck midnight, just before we went to sleep, I said,
“I’m feeling so miserable again.”
“Do you remember what you agreed with your doctor six months ago?” my friend asked.
She was right.
I had completely forgotten: if I relapsed, I would try the antidepressants.
As soon as I could, I went to my doctor’s walk‑in hours.
For the first three days I had to take half a pill before bed. After that, a whole one.
That first half pill…
I’ll never forget it.
My apartment was so small that I had to put my bed in the living room next to the couch.
So I was sitting on that couch, one meter away from my bed.
I had taken the half pill, and within half an hour a comforting feeling washed over me, as if a warm, soft protective blanket was being pulled over me.
Even though I was only a meter away from my bed, I knew:
I have to lie down now, or I won’t make it.
When I woke up the next morning, rested, my first thought was:
wow, is this how people normally feel? No pain.
Nothing in that information sheet applied to me.
Not even the part about needing to build up the medication before noticing improvement.
The sun broke through, and the world opened up again.
I became very creative. And also very fat.
My doctor laughed when I told him I’d bought a keyboard and that my friend and I were making music together.
“That happens,” he said. “People suddenly get inspired on that medication.”
I finally started cooking healthy meals again—not just for my daughter, but now also for myself.
And a few days later, when I organized a birthday party for my daughter at the swimming pool, I suddenly saw how pale and thin she looked compared to her friends.
Of course she did. She hadn’t wanted to eat for so long.
After the pool, I treated the kids to poffertjes (Video).
It was fun.
That feeling of not being lovable…
It had always been there.
I just didn’t know that’s what it was called.
And I’ve never been able to shake it off.
I still feel that way.
At the time, the Dutch version of the following Italian song (Quando finisce un amore, Riccardo Cocciante) was a hit. It’s about the incomprehensible loss of a great love. (Here are the lyrics translated into English.)
If any part of this story resonates with something you’ve lived through in your own way, you’re welcome to share it in the comments.
And if you feel comfortable: what helped you keep going during a difficult season in your life?
If you feel this story could mean something to someone else, sharing it would mean a lot.
Photo: Mike Kilcoyne
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