It’s been eight or nine years since my last episode. I guess you could say I’ve recovered, although it doesn’t feel like it sometimes.
I remember first having problems when I was a teenager at school. Life wasn’t great for anyone in my family back then but, instead of talking about it, I took my frustrations out on other people. The only thing I cared about was this soft toy dog I kept at the bottom of my bed. I called him Milo and I used to tell him everything. He was my rock.
Despite my terrible behaviour I still managed to get into college. That’s when things started to get worse. Instead of lashing out, I locked myself away. I felt hopeless. Like I wasn’t good at anything at all.
Being depressed felt like torture. I was surrounded by constant dread and worry about almost everything, and treatment that didn’t seem to work. Alone in a hole and utterly heart broken. That was me for weeks and weeks at a time and, honestly, you start to believe there’s no hope.
I didn’t have many close friends but a couple of them were very supportive. Well, as supportive as they could have been with me in such a state all the time. They accompanied me to the psychiatrist who eventually diagnosed major depressive disorder. In a way, I felt lifted. My constant companion had a name. Something I could grab on to and try to understand.
My depression no longer defines me, but it’s still very much a part of my life. I know how to feel it coming and, when it does, I have people who love me and care about me. They are literally life savers and I can’t imagine where I would be without them. It’s taken a long time to get here, but I’m here.
Milo is still with me too. He’s a good listener, but I’m sure he looks at me funny sometimes. I guess I can live with that.