I’ve read a few books about people who have had depression and who have recovered to some extent, at least. They are triggering in many ways but reassuring in others. You dare to believe, as you read, that you too could someday be that person, looking back full of wisdom, to that awful time in your past.
There’s a problem, though. One thing that they all have in common. Some are advocates of mindfulness and therapy, of meditation and 12-step plans. Some have gone into institutions, retreats, hospitals and these buildings have cleared their minds and twisted them round to the right direction. Some have embraced medication and suddenly the irrationality has gone and the days are bright again. Some become obsessive exercisers or writers or volunteers. Some have found a combination of these things work.
But all have had someone for support. Someone there all the time. A friend, a partner, a relative. It’s the common factor. It’s what makes me doubt things will change.
I can’t tell my family so that’s out. They have enough problems and the pressure to try and appear “better” almost immediately would only leave me back where I started. And somewhere along the line, I became someone who doesn’t really have any friends. I can only assume that somewhere along the line I did something wrong. Or maybe it’s just bad luck.
Maybe one day I’ll write a book about how I recovered from depression and it’ll break the mould because the central theme won’t be the support I received from loved ones.
Or maybe I won’t.