Showing Vulnerability
Showing vulnerability always made me feel uncomfortable. Not necessarily because of the fear of being seen as weak, but simply because I wasn’t used to it. I’m still not.
One day, however, I was forced to admit I was not doing as well as I acted.
On the surface
I acted like I was slowly back on track. That felt kind of true, but it wasn’t the full picture.
I started learning how to code, had finished HTML and half way through CSS, had made several my own works, and the depression was under control thanks for the medications.
I was doing okay, the teeth of depression wasn’t as sharp as before, so I didn’t plan to tell me family about it at all. I thought I was going to heal alone, and when I healed, I could show the happy self again.
No need to tell anyone. I thought so.
Admitted it
My mother suddenly had a sharp eye of a detective when she stepped into my room that day. It’s an innocent act. A glance at the trash bin in the corner of my desk, poked holes on the facade I had been trying so hard to build.
I didn’t think anyone would notice that blister pack, so I didn’t bother to cover it with other trash. And just like that, my mother noticed it, and asked me “What meds are you on?”
I didn’t want to say they were for anxiety and depression, but I didn’t want to lie, either. Plus, I didn’t have a good excuse. Still, I wasn’t ready for the D-word. So I said, “They are to make my mood better.” My mother understood my euphemism correctly.
“For depression?”
“And anxiety.”
“How long have you been having them?”
“About 2 or 3 months.”
“Why didn’t I know? Do you feel better?”
“Mm.”
The subtle changes in both sides
The changes in ourselves were subtle but noticeable. They showed in the different ways my mother responded to my greetings and good nights. They showed in the way she offered gentle suggestions on trying new things that might potentially make me better, like taking a part-time in a beverage store, being a Youtuber(?) or meeting my friends more, etc. When I said I wanted to buy a new keyboard, instead of pushing back or calling it a waste, she offered to pay for it.
(She knew my keyboard craze but didn’t understand why I bought so many different keyboards and switches. She respected it though.)
She paid more attention, to the time I took the nap and locked the door, to when I went out to take a walk, to what I had to say about the civil servant job and cat videos.
I changed a little too. Guess once showing tears made it easier to talk about hard things.
I told her the incident that made me sad.
I thought I was getting better, the foundation was getting more stable, and it’s time to face the world again, so I attended a social gathering. As expected, I was asked what I had been busy with lately. I said I was learning web development. And immediately, one of them said, “I think a boss would rather hire someone who knows how to use AI rather than web design.” I didn’t even decided to be a frontend developer, but I felt judged, and the foundation I tried to build so hard, was shaken. I cried long hours that day.
After my mother knew about my depression, one day I felt like crying again when remembering that incident. I tried to tell my mother that day, but she was watching stock videos. As I stayed close to her, looking at our own screens, she peeked at mine, which showed a cat being brushed. Maybe it was okay to cry then, but I didn’t. I started crying after I returned to my room.
The next day, I finally told her the incident. I even asked if I could cry to her when I was sad. She simply said “You can.”
It’s not easy to do even to my own parents. The old habit of hiding the sadness had been etched to my heart and brain. But part of me wanted that care, too. I had been fighting on my own for far too long.
Accepted the care
At this point, my mother is still gentler and more attentive than she was before. It might sound strange but I wish she can be like this a little longer.
I am still not used to receiving care, but guess I have no choice. I shall accept the care (and the keyboard) gracefully.