I was working hard, really hard! Working late, thinking about work, dreaming about work, worrying, suddenly it all mattered far too much. I became 1 in 4.
Family care, but this is different. To realise that you have people in your life that actually choose to be there can make you feel so special, so loved.
If you could see my mental illness then things would be different, I’m sure. But you can’t, so there is a huge stigma attached that makes me hide in shame.
Why mindlessly share the image of a dead child to confirm your own goodness? It’s someone else’s tragedy – where is the respect, the tact, the compassion?
I’m caught in a trap where if I don’t portray my depression, I’m not really depressed. But if I express sadness, I should stop feeling sorry for myself.