I have lived with Depression for most of my life.
I am lucky.
I have lived with it; it has not lived within me.
It means the difference between being able to get up and walk away. And being stuck with it: day after day after unrelentingly black day. It means the difference between being able to get up in the morning and face a new dawn. And never wanting to get out of bed again.
It means the difference between being able to get on with life and wanting, sometimes, to give up on it altogether.
My mum first got sick when I was thirteen. I know that because your mother's admission to the psychiatric ward of a large unfriendly, sterile-scented, mostly silent, white-walled, hospital is a difficult thing to forget. Besides, I recorded it in squat, childish, carefully executed (testimony to the weighty import of the entry) handwriting in my diary:
My mum has Depression. I hope she gets better quickly and never gets Depression again.
She did. And she still does - almost thirty years later - get Depressed. Again. And again. And again.
My mother's diagnosis has morphed from Depression to Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) which means it is both debilitating and stubbornly resistant to the various weapons she has employed in her artillery against it: lithium, assorted SSRIs, ECT, psychotherapy, cognitive therapy, fish oils ...