This essay is part of a series called The Big Ideas, in which writers respond to a single question: What do we fear? You can read more by visiting The Big Ideas series page.
“Your mommy was just so sad that she had to go.”
I’ve been told this all my life. I suppose that this framing is meant to comfort me, as if my mom’s suicide was as natural, unavoidable and unfortunate as a sand castle facing its eventual collapse. I have never found this explanation reassuring, though, because she contributed to half of my DNA. I have no control over how much of my mom’s mental illness is inside of me. If her suicide was inevitable, would I face the same outcome as her? Would I one day “have to go,” too?
My mom had bipolar disorder with manic depression. After developing an addiction to pain pills that were originally prescribed to treat a back injury due to pregnancy complications, she became suicidal and died in 1994, when I was 4 years old. But before she passed, she was an accomplished athlete and singer, class valedictorian and one of the first female software consultants at her company. Explain to me how, apart from genes, my mom could have so many successes … and still “have to go”? Especially since my mom’s only brother “had to go” several years later, too. Two of my own flesh and blood. They both simply “had to go”!
So to say that I fear my genes is an understatement. It’s scary to be afraid of the negative traits you may have inherited. It makes you afraid of yourself. And for the longest time, the only way I could think of to avoid my mom’s fate was to rely on another, more undeniably positive aspect of my genetic makeup — my athletic ability.
In addition to a predisposition toward mental illness, I also inherited an undeniable athletic talent: the ability to run long distances. So, I concentrated my efforts on becoming an Olympian. Because forever an Olympian, forever happy, right?
Although I didn’t start running because I loved it, I did eventually find exceptional joy in it. But this discovery didn’t detract from my original purpose in taking up running — to escape my imagined destiny. Chasing an Olympic dream in running felt like an obvious way to secure external validation and, in my mind, eternal happiness. And as physically painful as it sometimes could be, running genuinely felt more bearable than the prospect of becoming depressed like my mom. With running, I learned how to ignore pain in the present to protect myself from pain in the future.
I ended up running so fast that I made it all the way to the 2016 Olympics. But the thing about running away from your fears is that eventually they catch up with you, especially if you ignore them. I ran the best race of my life at the Rio Games. But when the Games were over, I still experienced a very natural dip, one that is fairly common among Olympians after they compete. I thus came face to face with the very fear I had tried so hard to avoid.
At one level, the depression I experienced was expected because I was physically and mentally exhausted after pursuing a lifelong dream. But on another, I felt blindsided that becoming an Olympian didn’t provide me with the satisfaction I so craved. Instead of viewing the Olympics as proof that I could overcome obstacles or adapt to adversity, I mistook the accolades as a cure for my intrinsic discomfort. So, when I became overwhelmed with sadness after the Games, I rejected my depression for as long as I could, afraid that if I acknowledged it, I would finally have to confront the destiny I assumed for myself and “have to go.”
I started experiencing firsthand some of what my mom must have felt. But even as I got used to these incessant scary thoughts, I knew that I didn’t want to “go” like my mom. My thoughts said, “I want to die,” but I knew at my core that this wasn’t true. My dad sensed red flags and eventually made me get help. When he told me that “we aren’t going to lose this time,” I knew exactly what he meant. Sometimes you get help for yourself; sometimes it takes thinking about the people you love. I got help because of my dad.
My perspective shifted substantially when I sought mental health treatment. My psychiatrist, whom I viewed and trusted like a coach, taught me that depression is more than just sadness: It’s a distortion of perspective. He compared mental illness to falling and scraping your knee, except the cut is on your brain. And, just like your knee, your brain can be treated, too.
This new metaphor gave me a way to work through my fear rather than run away from it. While depression may be an invisible injury, treating your mental health like your physical health is not only possible, but necessary. I now understand that even though I can’t control what my genes have in store for me, there are steps I can take to manage their influence.
I learned that when my emotions and genes manifest negatively, I can take actions in my life that will affect my thoughts and, in turn, my feelings. If I’m a sand castle and sense the tide rising and threatening to knock me down, I actually can raise the castle walls, add fortification and even move the castle away from the threatening environment.
My future — the universe where my fear lives — was never set in stone, and neither was my mom’s. I’m more than my genes, and I would not reroll the dice if given the option. I’m a verb, not a noun. I’m creating my self, not just discovering it. I have visible and invisible muscles both inside and out that I can strengthen and use to push myself across great distances. I have agency and potential until the day I die. I’m grateful for who I am and what I was born with and without. And while I have no way of regaining what’s been lost, there’s nothing that says I “have to leave.” I prefer the mystery of life, with all its beauty and pain, over the certainty of death.
If you are having thoughts of suicide, call or text 988 to reach the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline or go to SpeakingOfSuicide.com/resources for a list of additional resources.
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