Fast forward seven years and things weren’t really any better. I’d just become very adept at brushing almost everything I couldn’t cope with under the carpet. That was until the day came when I tripped over the aforementioned carpet, landed flat on my face, and everything came crashing down again. Only this time it was worse and I simply couldn’t deny the facts any more.
I did try to go to work the next day, but that didn’t work out quite how I had planned. So out of options I went to see my doctor – a different one from the last time. At least I had learnt from that experience. This time the doctor took the time to listen to what was actually going on in my life. He could see many of my symptoms were as a sat there opposite him crying uncontrollably, determinedly mutilating the damp tissue in my shaking hands.
Eight years down the line and I had just started to accept the fact that I was chronically depressed and contrary to by belief this was not a sign of weakness – quite the opposite in fact – not that it made me feel any better at the time.
Over the course of the next two years, spattered with the occasional up and lots of downs, I learnt to be patient with myself. Something rather novel for me as I’d never been very patient to begin with. There was some trial and error involved in finding the right combination of anti-depressants for me, but eventually the ups were more frequent and the down less debilitating. I was finally on the right track…