I’ve been depressed for quite a while. I don’t think it’s that uncommon to be depressed these days, with disconnection being an easy choice and readily available option. Regardless, there was a time I found it to be shameful and…unique.

The origin of my depressed state doesn’t match the common modern way (disconnection), but I did become depressed in a common, but lesser known way.

One day, I was born.

Well, wait, the story starts before that.

Generations earlier, there were lively, beautiful Italians putzing about in the poor areas of Naples, joyful with a propensity for culturally expected misery. Somewhere along the line, that propensity was nudged into an embodied trait. Unsurprisingly, misery likes to lasso anyone showing the slightest bit of sunshine, tie them up and leave them in the dirt, only to carry on just as miserably.

And so the story goes that a jealous lady in the family laid a fury-fueled Maloccio or Maloik (or evil eye) on one of my ancestors, turning bad luck, misery and general misfortune into a gene.

Until this day, that curse has stayed with us, depriving the bloodline of success, love and general enjoyment of anything. But, we all put on a brave face — we were also passed a lot of hard-earned Italian resilience.

I’m not blaming this whole thing on a curse, but it’s not something that can be ignored.

So, the story of how I became depressed goes:

One day, I was born — stop — that’s when it happened. That’s when I became depressed.

White, too-concentrated lights shone overhead. But they weren’t quite white — they always carried a tinge of gray and unnatural. The room was busy: with instruments, people, a lot of mechanical arms. We were shoved in a closet or back room where they keep the unused machines, or at least that’s what it felt like. I couldn’t see yet, or breathe.

Just like the machines, I felt left behind, although the panic around wouldn’t suggest that that was the case. I just couldn’t feel the care in any of it.

Greg, my twin, had left a while ago. He was feeble and weak, and hadn’t taken the initiative to birth himself, as was developmentally and instinctually meant to happen.

We had shared a room, for most of 9 months, and the time he had to himself in there had been short, but at least he had had some time alone.

It wasn’t a room for two. Like all good siblings, I had an aversion to the boy and his cooties and had shoved myself as far up against the ceiling as I could. It worked at the time, but I developed with a skewed sense of gravity. Up was left, and down was forward. I have never recovered.

We were supposed to punch and kick in that room — a developmental Muay Thai, and a rite of passage — but we were pressed in our corners, hardly able to lift a limb, or drop one towards the floor in my case.

And so, neither of us had the skills to birth ourselves, but somehow, even with his small, feeble ability, Greg had more than me and he had made it out, leaving me behind.

So I sat, in the dark, the walls illuminating soft orange periodically and the muffled sounds becoming louder and more frantic. Sometimes things pushed on the walls, caving them closer to me or vibrating the room in a frightening way. Whatever was out there didn’t seem welcoming. Would you want to leave?

It went on for a long time, but nothing encouraged me to move. I came into the room late, and hadn’t had enough time to transform from amphibian to human, as we all do. But the frantic voices became more frantic, and I could tell they were coming for me and part amphibian I would remain. At least later I would be proud of my webs.

There was a non-physical pressure coming down on me. I was supposed to be doing something, but didn’t know what, and I had no idea how. A lot was expected of me by a lot of people. And I could feel the stress filling the walls of the room — these walls could talk.

And then, something awful: the grayish, artificial white came into my room, that I had only had to myself for an hour and eighteen (a time Greg insists on). I felt myself, and then suddenly, I didn’t. That room, that container for me to wait in, was gone, and I was flailing in space, without a sense and without a clue.

I came out depressed, because I wasn’t ready. My nervous system wasn’t ready. The only chance I had to build resilience before entering the big, open world was taken from me, and in a literal way, not a victim way.

I didn’t get to birth myself — instead, someone did it for me, and I never got to know how to be in the world outside of that room. My protective and developmental reflexes that are essential for life did not activate and so my nervous system was depressed, inadequate, and I was born surviving. And not having done my own work to get into this world, I was born unsafe and unworthy.

When I was born, I didn’t know I was depressed of course — my cortex wasn’t developed yet. It would take years for that awareness to manifest. But there is something comforting about rationalizing depression this way. It’s more of a literal mechanism. A (reflex development) didn’t happen, so neither did B (appropriate neuro chemicals or emotional regulation).

C-section and traumatic births take away the baby’s right to fight and the ability to see that they have what it takes to make it through. No, they aren’t aware of this at the time, but their nervous system is, and that’s enough to impact an entire lifetime if not addressed.

These births result in inactive reflexes that are essential for the development of the nervous system, sensory perception, emotional regulation and cognitive prowess (or functioning at the very least).

C-section and traumatic births aren’t all bad. When unplanned, they also give us an opportunity to become even more resilient. Fighting without key developmental tools is not easy, at any stage of life. Self-worth is not automatic. The right to exist is not innate. They have to be learned and fought for, which can be soul-crushing at times. But if you can heal from a birth like this, you will have known adversity regardless of life-situation, and that builds resilience and yes, hyper-vigilance, but both are great tools in the right time.

So yes, many people are depressed and have been for a long time, but it isn’t a shameful thing. Their nervous system has been through a lot, and even with the disadvantage of not having led their own birth, the system isn’t designed to give up.

And if they’re lucky, they’ll have Italian ancestors — not the kind who pass on a Maloik, but those who pass on their grit and resilience, for that would certainly help them survive.