I have always, to my shame, looked down on people who had Depression. I genuinely thought depressed people were “ssaaaadddddd”, not in the emotional sense, but in the derogatory “what-a-LOSER” sense. I never thought it would affect someone like me.
I was diagnosed with Major Depression Disorder in September 2014, almost six months ago. At the time I was struggling to concentrate at work. Simple tasks took two hours instead of ten minutes to complete. I had problems sleeping. I would wake up at 5am every morning, in a complete state. I would be drenched in sweat, certain that someone had turned off the oxygen supply in my bedroom. I couldn’t breathe. I was going to die. It was truly awful. I would panic like this until I had to get up for work. By the time I arrived at work, it felt like I had wrestled a bear. And lost. . .
This continued for many months until my boyfriend took me to the GP. . .
I believe everyone would profit from a stay in a psychiatric hospital at some point in their lives. It was highly rewarding, and for the budding writer, The Clinic was rich in anecdotal treasures. Being with other “normal” but depressed people made me realise that this is a disease that doesn’t discriminate. Depression doesn’t care if you’re pretty, or young, or well off. It doesn’t care that you’re usually a happy person. Depression doesn’t see colour, status or class. It will gobble you up and spit you back out.
But not me.
When I left The Clinic, I was determined to do all I could to bring an end to the stigma that surrounds mental illnesses. I believe that if you’ve been affected by a mental illness, it is your moral duty to educate others about its effects.
Depression is hard, but people’s reactions to it makes it harder.
Read more of depressiondarling’s story. Visit My Pledge | Depression Darling.