I am sitting here with wet eyes, light tears rolling down my cheeks. I just did something I’ve been wanting to do since my little boy left my house but it has been so hard for me to do… I sent an email to his social worker. I sent an email apologizing.
I know, I know. I’ve been told countless times that Mental Illness is not my fault so in turn it is not my fault that T is not living with us. It is hard to convince me of that. I still remember during our interview with T’s social worker, his boss, and our social worker being asked what would happen if I fell victim to Depression again. Being the healthiest I have ever been at that point (and medication free for 4 years), I said that will not happen. I was so stupid for saying that… so stupid for thinking that as a reality. Depression has been a part of my life for over 20 years. It is like the relative you don’t want to invite to your child’s birthday party but have to.
Even with my Therapist, friends and family telling me it isn’t my fault, I’ve tried to put myself in my husband’s shoes. What if it was him who was in pain, him who couldn’t eat, him who kept crying and shaking… would I be able to tell him it wasn’t his fault, it is an illness? Would I be able to forgive him? I’d rather not answer those questions but just admit that my husband is an incredible man for staying with me.
So, I wrote this letter. I titled it “Apology” with T’s name after it in the subject line. I explained how I was so sorry, that I had no idea how quick the illness would come on. I explained to him how I got worse after T left and once again entered Short Term Psych. I told him we still love T and think of him daily. I told him that I hope T is doing great and that his new family loves him and can take care of him the way I couldn’t.
Writing this short letter brought on images of T’s face. His dimpled cheeks, dark brown hair, deep chestnut eyes. It brought on memories of me kissing his soft cheek, holding his tiny hands. Memories I never want to forget, but still remind me I am not in remission yet with Depression.
There is still some shame there… blame… horrible guilt.
I don’t know what I expect. I will probably never hear from T’s Social Worker. The mother in me just wants to know he is okay and is thriving.
Here I am, sitting, facing this white screen with dry eyes still thinking of T, choking back some tears. I will get better. I will get to remission. I’ve been at war with Depression 5 times before and have always came out victorious. I am winning this 6th battle and will hopefully be able to kick Depression’s butt to a far off galaxy to never be seen for a 7th time.