My dear, sweet broken brain

How I got the treatment I needed for depression

It seems my fellow bloggers have coaxed me out from behind the woodwork.

I’ve often heard that the late teens and twenties are quite the formative years. I wouldn’t know. From the ages of 17 – 29 I was sick with depression. A chronic depression that was at times suicidal. Once I got the treatment I needed I never felt much shame or made any kind of an effort to stay in the closet with it because like with infertility, I felt I had done nothing wrong. After including it in my medical history at a doctor’s appointment about fifteen years ago I was told by one of the office assistants in a concerned tone that “(I) you shouldn’t let people know that.” “Why not?” I challenged. Not surprisingly she had no answer.

Truth be told I hadn’t thought about writing about depression. Been a little busy lately grieving the loss of my children and all. Upon recovering in my late twenties, I began my race to make up for what I felt were lost years, and in the process had little time for advocacy. Which slid into a complacency of sorts. Although the climate has become a bit more informed since the days a decade and half ago when crazy rebel that I am I started including depression in my medical history, I figured the heart wrenching tragic death of Robin Williams would become just another situation where people would judge and even the best meaning people would again not get it, and thus the stigma would continue. Instead, I was wowed by post after post acknowledging depression, all of them thoughtful, accurate and substantive, and some downright bold and transparent. Thank you, Silent Sorority, RIP The Life I Knew, Ever Upward, Real Life and Thereafter, and all others who I’ve seen post about depression in the past. Read more