So it was fun this evening, trying to tell my mother that I am on antidepressants without making it sound like a big deal. My mother has that inherent distaste towards mental illness which all the older generation seem to have, so it was hard to slip this in casually during a normal phone conversation.
“Oh, nothing really new. You? Work is about the same. Oh! I’m on antidepressants now.
“Yeah… I was crying a lot the other night so Perfect Husband popped me into the hospital.
“Yeah, I’m fine.
“Hey, did you hear that Boy Cousin got a NOSE JOB? Yes, MY boy cousin! A nose job! Isn’t that crazy?
“…It’s called Wellbutrin. But you should really call your brother and gossip with him about his son’s nose job.
“Yes, I’m fine, really. Come on… NOSE JOB!”
Despite my conviction that my cousin’s unexpected and probably unwarranted cosmetic surgery was more interesting news, my mother seemed to want to fixate on why I need medication and more importantly whether it was her fault.
Of course, she decided that it probably was her fault, because she thinks everything is her fault. Like, everything. World War II? Yeah, that happened because my mother wasn’t a good enough mother to me. In fact, Eve probably wouldn’t have eaten the apple if only my mother hadn’t transferred her latent anxieties to me in my childhood! It’s a good thing my mother comes clean about stuff like this, or the world would never know.
