Hello world, and hello to my world.
As you can see, it is early January – always a good time to make a new start on something, in the Western World at least.
Let me introduce myself – my name is Emma, I’m 31 and I have depression. Yes, it feels like an AA introduction but, to be honest, admitting to having a mental illness can feel almost as shameful, especially as it’s usually followed by “But why?” from a wellmeaning person, and a sneered “What have YOU got to be depressed about?” from someone who is less so.
So what have I got to be depressed about? In reality, nothing. I’m relatively healthy, with two beautiful children, and a loving husband. I am in gainful employment and, while we’re not rich, we manage the mortgage payments each month and still have enough left over for food. I am genetically blessed enough to conform to many of our societies ideals for the female figure without needing to diet, and am of above-average intelligence. So really, there is no reason for me to be depressed which, as anyone who suffers with depression will tell you, makes me feel even worse.
It’s difficult to explain that depression is a combination of nature and nuture – a genetic propensity combined with life experiences, usually in childhood, that make some people less able to cope with thr rigours of living. I know people who have faced bankruptcy – my worst fear – with serenity and a quiet belief that it will all work out. Personally, I panic if we are nearing the overdraft.
So, why am I depressed? Well, it certainly runs in the family.
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