It is hard to talk openly about depression, just as it is hard to admit to yourself that you have it. I, too, spent a long time putting off that oppressive prospect — telling myself I was stuck and needed help. I followed the classic path of denial, despair, acceptance and fighting for my life. It is one of those roads you are unlikely ever to leave behind for good, but if I managed to learn to live and be happy all over again, then things are not so bad.
Of the thirty-one years of my life, I have spent seven with a diagnosis — depression. There is a common misconception that it is some sort of silly indulgence invented for teenagers and hysterical women with too much time on their hands.