The eventual, unravelling of my mental health followed in my mid thirties – helped, if that’s the right word – by the pressure and stress of work, demanding corporate structures and cultures and complicated by demands of sharing my life with a little person I adore, whilst still trying to make sense of a failing and ultimately failed relationship with my own father. Signs I missed and nobody ever pointed out to me until many years later. There were fall-outs with friends that were unnecessary but felt the only way of surviving fears of abandonment or rejection – adding further to my isolation and aloneness. My bed-wetting as a child (which went on for a lot longer than for most children) my quiet days growing up, sitting alone for hours at a time, sometimes in near darkness my jumpiness at any unexpected noises and constant, nervy fiddling with car radios, windscreen wipers and other buttons and switches on the dashboard (which were the source of much light-hearted derision amongst some of my mates) the periods of feeling sad, lonely, unheard and not understood and the worrying – the at times, constant, crippling worrying – about being on time, of flying, about my health and the health of others and any impending events. With the support of therapists, a kind GP, a couple of sessions with a psychiatrist and a lot of soul-searching, self reflection and painful introspection, I know that I have been living with depression and anxiety for as long as I can remember.

I am now in the eye of the storm: what it’s like to be in a depressive episode

I am the eye of the storm