I had loving parents.
I had wonderful siblings.
It was great, but I was sad all the time.
And as I look back on that, I didn't know any better
because that's just how I thought it was,
that I was just sad.
And so as I grew and went to middle school,
you've got preteen and then you have teenagers,
and you have all those issues that you normally deal with.
But it was a very, very difficult time for me
and, looking back, more difficult than it
should have been, because I didn't know why I was sad.
I didn't know why I couldn't be happy.
There was something wrong with me.
And I would get comments from my father, saying,
"What's wrong with you?
Buck up, come on," and just that attitude.
And it was like, "OK, what is wrong with me?
I don't know."
And I went to college and would spend days in bed
crying and not knowing why.
So fast forward to my early mother years in the '80s,
and it was getting worse and it was getting worse.
And I didn't have any context to put a label on it.
I just knew that I couldn't get out of bed, that I couldn't.
And I knew that I had four children that
needed to be taken care of, and I had to do it.
And so I would just will myself out.
But the minute they were in school
or the minute they were on a play date
or the minute they were out of the house, I was boom, back
in bed because bed was safe.
Laying there was safe.
But the tears would come, and I just didn't know.
I didn't know what was wrong with me,
but something was wrong.
Something was very wrong.
And I get emotional about it because I
wish I had an advocate.
I wish I knew, but I wish somebody else knew,
and I wish there was somebody that I could confide in to say,
"Man, I'm feeling these things and I don't get it."
And someone would say, "Oh, you have depression."
It was not something that people knew how to handle.
My bishop didn't know how to handle it.
My husband, bless his heart, didn't know how to handle it
but was such a trooper anyway--didn't know what to do,
but he stuck by me.
My children didn't know why their mom
was crying all the time.
And so finally, it was right after Christmas that I just
fell apart--fell apart--had a nervous breakdown.
And so my husband put me in the car,
and he took me to the hospital.
And from there, diagnosis came.
It didn't really save me.
It didn't really help me.
It just gave a name to what I was experiencing.
I was diagnosed bipolar.
How I lived it up till then, in terms of being happy and having
all these wonderful experiences and not being able to feel
them--depression is like, it suffocates your heart,
and it suffocates your soul.
And you can't feel.
You can't feel the depth of the happiness
that you could feel if that wasn't just hanging over.
It's like a cloud.
And sometimes, I'm on it and I'm on point and I'm strong.
And some days, uh-uh, and you wonder, "Why am I even here?
What's the point?
I have no value."
And that, that thought right there--"I have no value"--is
the damning damage that happens to one's soul and one's heart
when they let depression run rampant and when it's not taken
care of.
For me, the hardest thing to deal with,
the hardest thing for me to step out of,
is that belief that I'm not worth anything.
But I believe that.
I believe it, just like, "Why am I here?
There's no point in being here."
In the depths of that, in the depths of being a mother--and
this is when I had my four children--and that thought
process where I'm going, "Yeah, I'm going to do it.
I'm going to do it.
This is too hard.
I don't want to do this anymore.
It's just too hard."
In that thought process and actually making plans to exit,
I was again in bed because that's
where I spent most of my time, closing my eyes.
And my children appeared before me.
And it wasn't a vision.
It was just their faces.
It was just their faces with two shadows behind them,
because there were two more coming that weren't there yet.
And the thought came into my head: "Don't do this to them.
Please don't do this to them."
And so in a moment of lucidity, in a moment of clarity
that I had not had in a really, really long time,
I felt like the future was opened up to me enough
to see that "no, I'm not going to do that to them."
And so it was that experience that strengthened my resolve
to manage this, to deal with it, because the Spirit also
told me, "It's not going away.
This is yours."
And I didn't want it, and there were fights,
and there were battles back and forth.
But it's mine.
So with that resolve--and that was in the early
'90s, mid-'90s--I said, "OK, if this is mine,
I'm going to learn how to manage it.
And I'm not going to be a victim of it,
and I will not be defined by it."
And that's when an element of healing began.
Those six people, that one husband, have saved my life.
And hmm--sorry--that's the miracle.
I don't have any grand story to tell.
I don't have any--angels didn't come visit me, none of that.
But the fact that I'm still here and that I teach school every
day and that I have 14 grandchildren and I go
to their soccer games and I go to their recitals and I get
on the plane and go visit them--an extremely ordinary
life that I love with all my heart, and it's mine.
Now, I have been often reminded by heaven
that that is my miracle, that that is my gift.
So when I got into my 50s, I quit saying, "Oh, what's next?"
Whoa, quit saying that.
And I started asking, "What would You like me to learn,
Father?
What would You like me learn?
Where would You like me to go with this?
Because it's not going away.
So how can I be of service?"
And that's when I started talking
about the condition of depression more openly
and was more open with others about what I was experiencing.
And you don't have to give advice.
All you have to do is give them a hug
and love them and listen to them.
And then they feel validated that "no, I'm not crazy,
because I thought I was crazy for years."
No, you're not crazy.
You have an affliction.
The affliction is real, and the affliction is valid,
and you are valid.
And let's find ways.
Let's find ways so we can manage it.
I think one of the hardest things
for me here in the early days of my affliction
was "Well, if you read more scriptures
and you said your prayers more, you'd be better."
Oh, that's hard, too.
That's hard to hear, but don't give up.
Those things that have brought the Spirit into your life,
just keep doing them.
Sometimes you don't feel like they're doing any good,
and sometimes you feel heaven is a million miles away.
But just keep doing it.
And even on the days you don't want to, call me.
Call a friend you trust, and I'll do it for you.
I'll say a prayer for you.
I'll read a scripture for you.
As far as advice that I would offer
you is do something for yourself that
validates your existence, that validates who you are.
So it's really hard to give service
when you're suffocating under the cloud of depression,
but it's really easy to think a thought
and go, "Man, if I felt better, I think I'd go do that."
And then those thoughts can turn into actions eventually.
I am grateful for the depression because it
created an opportunity in me to make a decision: "I could have
become bitter, or I could have become better,"
quoting somebody.
There's a lot of collateral damage from being depressed,
but there are some collateral blessings, too.
I do know, without it, that I would not
have come to an understanding of the Savior, His Atonement,
and His life without that pain.
And on one level, it makes me sad.
Is that what it takes for me to get it?
And on the other level, I am so grateful that I
got to bear this burden so I could get to know Him
in a more intimate way.
I love Him as my Savior, but I love Him as my Savior,
literally.
And my favorite part that I like to share
about having this affliction, being depressed,
is that I have compassion that I did not
have when I was 25 years old.
And this has softened my heart.
This has expanded my soul.
This affliction, this ailment, this depression
has made me better because I chose to let it make me better.
I bear my witness as a daughter of God that He is there.
I bear my witness that I have not been abandoned.
I bear witness that in the deepest depths of despair
that I have felt, that I have never felt abandoned.
I can say that with clarity because I can look back
at the time I wasn't so sure.
But because I was always able to rise
and I was always able to actually become
better, those darkest episodes, I bear witness.
And He's aware of me and He loves me.
How could I not love myself?
Because He loves me.
And as I contemplate the Savior, as I contemplate the Atonement,
as I think about Gethsemane, what I suffer
is nothing compared to that.
And what He suffered allows me to go home,
allows me to embrace Him, and allows
me to look my Father in the eye and say, "I really did my best.
I really did."
I bear witness that Jesus is the Christ
and there is hope in His Atonement.
I bear witness that there is always hope.
It's never gone.
And there's no other story to tell.
There isn't because I am His daughter.
And because I'm His daughter, I can make mistakes.
Because I'm His daughter, He can love me anyway.
Because I'm His daughter, I can have this.
But because I am His daughter, I can also overcome it.
No better how bad it gets--and it gets bad.
I'm not going to take away from that.
It's bad, and there's just no vocabulary
that I have to express the depths of despair.
But no matter how bad it gets, there is always that one thing
that you can hang your hope on.
The world may do what it's going to do,
but in my little corner that I take care of for me, that's
mine, I will choose hope and I will choose happiness
when I can.
It's hard.
It has its days, but I love my life.
And that is a gift that I will cherish
and I give thanks to heaven for.