But, after reading Rosemarie Milsom’s searingly honest piece regarding women and depression in today’s Sydney Morning Herald, prompted by the suicide of Charlotte Dawson, I felt compelled to give some form and structure to thoughts and experiences of my own.
Milsom writes: “I was wary of being diagnosed with depression. That would have meant that I had lost control, that I had become weak and allowed my crisis to beat me. I was usually resilient, buoyant, an optimist. I had become lethargic, addicted to sugar, teary, irritable, joyless and unable to focus.”
This was, essentially, me last year until, inspired and encouraged by my Super Tops Awesome Best Friend, I finally, finally, went to my wonderful GP and asked for help. The little pill I started taking each morning, and still take, broke the maddening circuit of sadness, anger and guilt I was stuck in and enabled me to begin healing myself, being kinder to myself, and approach life in new ways.
That is not to say that I am “cured”.
That is certainly not to say that I have stopped self-defeating behaviour such as projecting bouts of self-loathing onto my poor husband, who deserves none of the vitriol I have spewed forth on too many occasions.
There have been setbacks. There have been bleak days. But they are now the exception, not the rule, and I am getting better and better at the practise of self-compassion.
In conclusion, if YOU need help, please, please, please ask someone for it. You can certainly ask me. The only regret I have about asking for help is that I didn’t do it sooner.