On being (un)done or being honest about my struggle with depression…

If my husband and I had gotten married today rather than almost 11 years ago, there is one thing in particular I would have done differently. I would have kept my maiden name. Or at least hyphenated our last names (though, as we’ve discovered, Fong and Congdon do not mesh particularly well, despite the very comical Fong-Cong jokes over the years). But alas, the me of 2005 thought it was very romantic to take my new husband’s last name so Fong was retired and Congdon became part of my new identity. For the better part of 5 years I was Mrs. Congdon in different teaching capacities and I often wondered if parents were suprised to meet me for the first time and find that Mrs. Congdon (a very British name) is actually a Chinese-American woman. It’s a fact that you can’t miss upon meeting me.

Despite having grown up Chinese-American and even attending a Chinese church, I have to admit I know little about my culture of origin (besides food related knowledge). I cannot always decipher what is Chinese, what is Christian, what is familial, but one thing I can say with certainty – in the Chinese culture, appearance is everything. The way you present yourself to the world can make or break you. One must always be composed, in control, and in charge. If you’re not, well, shame on you. Literally. But for the remainder of this post, I feel I must say – To hell with you, shame.

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I suffer from chronic depression. There. I said it. How very un-Asian of me.

Pinpointing the moment when I can first identify the presense of the disease in my life is difficult, but it was likely in my teen years. Over time it has intensified during particularly stressful times of my life. Moving away from home after getting married, teaching in inner-city Philly, leaving/being abandoned by a church, watching all of our friends move away, an intense pregnancy, etc, etc. It comes and goes, ebbs and flows, but it never truly leaves. I cannot yet say (and perhaps I’ll never be able to say), I’m healed.

When you are in the depths of a depressive episode you are not in control. You are not in charge of your own thoughts and emotions. And it is pretty damn hard to be composed. But because that cultural piece is so deeply engrained in me it is HARD to allow myself to let my outward appearance match my inward turmoil. Chinese culture says you cannot appear weak, you cannot be broken, and you cannot let anyone see that you are not okay. In other words, you should not be depressed.

 Perhaps it’s easier when I’m in the midst of a hardship that is fairly public. For instance, when I was teaching in Philly I resigned halfway through a school year due to depression (that had become bad enough to need medication) and it seemed acceptable to let people know that I was suffering from depression. But I had been in a rough situation and it made sense, so the shame level was low. Even in Chinese culture people understand there are times in life that are tumultuous. So in that moment I let my composure go, admitted that I was not in control and that I needed a way out.

But what about now – in the times when I have no excuse to be depressed other than to say, the disease sucks? I am, at this very moment, depressed with no logical reason. You likely (if you see me in real life) didn’t know that. Because I go out of my way to hide it. You don’t know that at the end of the day I can barely lift myself off the couch to put my kids to bed. You don’t know that I cannot find motivation to do things that I enjoy like sew or create new things. You don’t know that trying to treat my husband and children with kindness and patience is next to impossible. You don’t know that writing this is one of the most frightening things I’ve ever done. You don’t know because I was taught that you CAN’T know. Not that you shouldn’t know, but you absolutely cannot find out or I am a failure as a human being.

Enough.

It’s time to shatter the facade. Lift the veil. Break the stigma.

My name is Amy Congdon (Fong) and I am a Chinese-American woman who suffers from depression. I do not need to be ashamed. This disease does not make me weak or worthless. Depression does not define who I am. And I work hard (therapy every week) to find ways to live with, but ultimately find freedom from this very common mental illness.

I do not need to be composed, in control, and in charge all the time. It is okay for me to need help, say no, and let perfection go.

Most importantly, I am more than this chronic disease. I am strong, I am beautiful, I am hopeful, I am more.

I am enough.