It seems that everyone is talking about depression these days. Ten or so years ago, saying “I’m depressed” just meant you were having a low day, feeling a bit crappy. Having actual depression was a hush-hush mental illness no one really understood. It was all just a little bit wussy.
Ten years ago – well, I didn’t understand it. I still don’t, not really. I always felt it was an excuse for being a little – well, flaky. Then someone close to me was diagnosed with postnatal depression – and I saw the huge change – and improvement – in their life, their mood, their interaction with their family and health once they accepted that it was an illness, not a weakness – and got help. I realised there was something to it all.
But still – it wasn’t something that could impact on me – right?
Maybe it isn’t impacting me. Maybe I am now using depression as an excuse. The bad moods, the sudden temper surges, the lack of interest in working about the house, the loss of patience with the kids, the paranoia and distrust of all friends.
Is it possible I am diagnosing depression rather than accept the truth – it’s being with me that is turning him into this person. Perhaps he just feels trapped by me.
Is it possible that he is actually fine, and it’s me that is ill – that I am blaming my bad moods, temper surges and lack of confidence on the stress I think he causes? Is it possible that I am just too demanding, too selfish?
Is depression real? Is it in my household, like an insidious monster, creeping up and catching us unawares, wrapping it’s cold clammy hands around our minds and warping us into surly, resentful, lacklustre creatures?
Perhaps it is just ‘that time of year’. Perhaps we should just wait it out. ‘Get over it.’
Perhaps I’m being over dramatic. Ridiculous. Attention seeking. Over reacting.
It’s just tiredness. It’s stress. It’s work, pressure, money, responsibility, life today. Everyone feels the same. Just shut up, carry on, sort it out.