My father and I faced depression in isolation
Living under the same roof during the pandemic lockdown, we struggled with it separately
I thought I was stronger than most, but I was wrong.
Prior to the shutdown, I was seeing a student therapist twice a month. I was at a point where I started seeing small changes in myself. I saw myself grow.
So when things started closing up I immediately threw myself into a new schedule — in what I thought was a productive coping mechanism. I tried filling my days as best as I could, by learning new languages, taking online courses, exercising, and going outside. It was me, featuring me, for 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
I honestly thought I was doing well. I was keeping occupied and didn’t feel the existential dread about my social life ending. Despite my job as a DJ, which means always being out and socializing, I’m an introvert. Being alone and isolated, I thought I was totally in my element, as I had been planning for a while to slowly step away from the lifestyle.
It was different for my friends in the industry. I could see they were going through a tough time. It felt strange because I couldn’t relate. I asked myself, “Why aren’t I depressed? Everyone around me is.”
What I didn’t realize is that throughout those times, my mental health was already faltering. And I wasn’t alone.
I live at home with my dad, who is an immigrant. On top of dealing with my own mental struggles during this time, I didn’t realize that I was also dealing with his. He lost a job that he had been working at for 20 years. Ever since arriving in Canada in the late eighties, he has never not worked. Since I lost my mom, he’s put a roof over my head and made sure I always had enough to eat. He’s never taken a vacation longer than five days and never a paid vacation.
This would be the first time he’s ever been on a “vacation” in 30 years. And I could see he didn’t know what to do.
He had lost the purpose in his life — his work that provides for us. As a cook, he wasn’t needed anymore at the restaurant during shutdowns. He had nothing to do at home, so he just kept cooking. He’d make Lao and Thai dishes at home, where our family is from. Dishes we haven’t eaten in years, like Saku Sai Moo.
Like me, he needed a routine, a distraction.
This period was the most time we’ve ever spent together, at home without actually spending time together. We live in the same household, but we al
ways had our own schedules, and we were both grieving internally but acting strong.
In most Asian cultures, it’s not a thing to talk about your emotions or your feelings. I couldn’t ask him about how he felt and I couldn’t tell him how I felt. He asked me a lot of questions around CERB, our rent, what the virus actually meant. I didn’t have the answers. No one did. I internalized these feelings heavily. We both did.
Then after weeks of feeling like I was OK, the depression hit. I was very aware that something was wrong. I woke up one morning and just didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to do anything. I felt heavy. I felt like there was a pulsing ball radiating outwards from the centre of my body. Like when you shake a pop bottle and the pressure you feel right before you open it.
My strong-willed side forced myself to get up, exercise, get on with my day and keep pushing through. “Don’t let this bring you down,” my inner Kermit said to me. Up until this point, I had not seen my therapist since the shutdown, mostly for cost reasons.
But despite that, I was mentally drained from running the marathon of the pandemic. It had been six weeks at this point. For me, not knowing when or where the “finish line” was, was terrifying. Was there ever going to be a finish line? Do I have to keep this up forever?
I eventually worked through this instance of COVID depression by accepting it. “Let the feeling sit, and then allow it to wash away” is what my therapist told me. I found healing in meditation, and writing out my thoughts I couldn’t express to anyone.
In the past six months, I’ve gone through about two or three waves of depression. Whenever I feel it bubbling up, I write it out, even if it doesn’t make sense. Just to get my thoughts out somewhere that isn’t in my mind. It’s going to be a grind but I can’t help my father if I don’t recognize it myself.
Eventually, as restaurants started to reopen, my dad went back to work in June. We never got a chance to talk about those internal struggles. Our schedules went back to “normal,” but
I’m not sure if emotionally, we’re the same.
Now my goal, with the help of my therapist, is working to break down the layers of emotional trauma that my dad has built up.
My therapist tells me to “find that small opening” to get through to him. I haven’t been able to find it. I can’t tell if he’s finding other ways to express himself. But I hope one day we can console one another about the dread we hid and felt together but apart.
This time has given me space to reflect on my needs when it comes to prioritizing not only my mental health, but my mental energy. I’m more purposeful when it comes to who I choose to physically (and safely) hang around. I don’t go out to gatherings “just because.”
I’m still running the marathon. I’m not reaching the finish line anytime soon. I need to pace myself for the safety of my health and those around me, especially my father. This race is far from over, but we have to own it.